BY ARTHUR. J. EDDY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
AT LOS ANGELES
GIFT OF CAPT. AND MRS.
PAUL MCBRIDE PERIGORD
ANGELES
LIBRARY
CANTON & CO.
Ganton swung around and said sharply, — " Why did n't we make a
better showing last month, Browning?" [Page 12]
CANTON & CO
A Story of Chicago Commercial
and Social Life
BY
ARTHUR JEROME EDDY
Author of " Tales of a Small Town" "Recollections
and Impressions of Whistler," etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY THOMAS FOGARTY
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1908
-1 O 'J J >J i
COPYRIGHT
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1908
Published September 26, 1908
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England
All Rights Reserved.
Cfjf lak«fbe ^rcss
R. R. DONNELLEY * SONS COMPANY
CHICAGO
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE OFFICE ON LA SALLB STREET ... 9
II. GALA- NIGHT AT THE PARK CLUB ... 30
III. NOTORIETY 42
IV. JOHN GANTON, JR 49
V. A WIRELESS MESSAGE 56
VI. THE GREAT STRIKE 71
VII. NOT A CENT FOR TRIBUTE 81
VIII. A DINNER AT THE GOLF CLUB .... 92
IX. A DAUGHTER OF JEM KEATING . . . . 119
X. ONE SUNDAY AFTERNOON 135
XI. A GLASS OF WINE 165
XII. AN ANONYMOUS LETTER 186
XIII. EFFORTS TOWARD COMPROMISE .... 204
XIV. THE WORK OF THUGS 219
XV. END OF THE STRIKE 235
XVI. BLOOD WILL TELL 257
XVII. JOHN GANTON'S REMORSE 284
XVIII. FATHER AND SON 303
XIX. MRS. JACK'S DINNER 319
XX. A STRAIGHT TIP 331
XXI. DELANEY'S LAST PLAY 354
CONTENTS — CONTINUED
XXII. OUT OF THE YARDS 374
XXIII. THE SENTENCE OF DEATH 384
XXIV. JOHN GANTON'S VISION 396
XXV. THE END AND THE BEGINNING .... 408
ILLUSTRATIONS
PASE
Ganton swung around and said sharply, — "Why
didn't we make a better showing last month,
Browning ? " . . . . . . Frontispiece
It was the regular gala-night at the Park Club, and,
as usual, Mrs. Jack had secured her favorite corner 34
Allan walked slowly along the dimly lighted street,
his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the side
walk, thinking 232
"You remember what I said to you," his father
repeated in harsher tones. ' ' If you marry that
girl I '11 cut you off without a penny !" . . 316
"Not much,1' Will exclaimed jubilantly, "I'll hang
on until it touches — " 358
CANTON & CO.
CHAPTER I
THE OFFICE ON LA SALLE STREET
THE day was hot, very hot for June ; a strong southwest
wind swept clouds of dust along the dirty street
and through the open windows of the high buildings
on each side.
John Ganton sat with coat off and vest unbuttoned in his
La Salle Street office, mopping sweat from his forehead as he
pored over the balance-sheets showing the profits of his
great company for the previous month, — his company,
because he owned practically the entire capital stock. The
outstanding minority interest was held by his son Will, a few
heads of departments, and the managers of branches, upon
conditions which gave him the right to purchase at a fixed
price if the holder ever wished to sell, or should leave his
employ, or die, — conditions which bound his men to him
without permitting them to exercise any real ownership over
their stock. Furthermore, the company was his because he
had made it; his brains, his industry, his genius, had built it
up from a small beginning to the greatest concern of the kind
in the world. The papers before him showed that at the
" Yards " in Chicago, and in his plants in different cities, he
frequently killed more than twelve thousand cattle, about the
same number of sheep, and thrice as many hogs every twenty-
[9]
Ganton & Co.
four hours, — over sixty thousand animals a day. For the ben
efit of visitors to the cattle-killing room, a great sign read —
CAPACITY— 1200 CATTLE PER HOUR
Yet it was the aim of John Ganton's life to double the
output of his company, to make it greater than that of all
other packing companies taken together, to extend his con
trol over the slaughtering and packing industry until the
world depended upon him for meat.
In every city of any importance he had established his
agencies, until the sign "GANTON & Co." was almost as
familiar in Hong Kong as in Omaha. He owned his own
cars and his own ships, and each carried conspicuously the
blazing sign, " GANTON & Co." His name meant more to
the millions who ate his foods and consumed his products
than that of any monarch.
An electric fan in one corner of the small room which
served as his private office kept the hot air in circulation,
and helped some, but not much, for the wind was stifling, and
John Ganton felt the heat; felt it, as he frequently said,
more than when he was younger and worked at the Yards.
Besides, he was not satisfied with the business of the previous
month as shown by the figures before him.
From time to time he shook the dust from the papers, and
scrutinized first one sheet, then another, as if searching for
the weak point. They had made only a little over four
millions in May, an increase of only three hundred thousand
over the same month of the year before ; and it failed to sat
isfy him. For that matter, he seldom was satisfied with
the showing made, demanding larger and larger returns, and
[10]
The Office on La Salle Street
by his indomitable will and tireless energy spurring his
lieutenants on to greater efforts, until the force in every
branch, from office-boy to manager, were moved by the fever
ish desire to outdo themselves and others; to make each
month, each quarter, each year, better than the last. John
Ganton's spirit moved not only those about him, but men
in his employ in far countries, men he had never seen and
who would never see him. If a man did not speedily be
come imbued with that spirit, the company had no use for
him; if he was not ready to sacrifice his days and nights,
his youth, his life, his home and family, to advance the
interests of the company, he could go. Somehow, such was
the power and influence of the iron-willed man at the head,
that men fell unresistingly into his way of doing things and
became his slaves; they followed him in his great fight for
industrial supremacy as soldiers follow a successful general
in a campaign of conquest.
As he put his short, stubby forefinger on one footing after
another, the scowl on his face grew deeper, and he chewed
away viciously at the end of the cigar in his mouth. He did
not smoke, always said he could not afford it; but in his
earlier days he had been an inveterate chewer, and while
that habit had been partially conquered, it survived in the
chewing of cigars he never lighted.
Coming to a report which was particularly unsatisfactory,
he called to the boy who sat at the small desk just outside the
door connecting with the main office, —
"Tell Browning to come here."
He leaned back in his chair, mopped his red face, and
looked out of the open window toward the big brick building
opposite, where he could read on a long row of windows the
I"!
Ganton &: Co.
signs of his chief competitor, and reading these did not
improve his frame of mind.
Browning was manager of the home office; in reality he
was John Ganton's right-hand man, at once his ablest and
most abject slave. Ganton valued him without knowing
how much he really depended upon him.
Browning entered and stood quietly beside the desk.
His employer swung around and said sharply, —
" Why did n't we make a better showing last month,
Browning ? "
" All things considered, it seems to me we did pretty well,"
Browning replied deferentially.
" I don't think so ; we should have done twenty per cent
better; there is something wrong somewhere. The com
pany needs shaking up, — a few changes would do no
harm."
That was his way, always threatening changes but seldom
making any, for no one knew the disadvantage of frequent
changing better than John Ganton. Yet, strange to say,
the men always thought he meant it, and trembled and
struggled accordingly.
"We lost on wheat last month, you know," suggested
Browning.
"Yes, yes; I know: bad judgment. Parker ought to
have known better."
"He says he followed your orders."
"I told him to buy, but I did not tell him to buy all in
sight; there is no reason why a man should lose his head
because he gets a hint; but," changing the subject hastily,
" how about the poor showing at Omaha ? "
" The strike— "
[12]
The Office on La Salle Street
" That 's no excuse. Why did Billings have a strike ? "
"He could not help it; the men demanded an advance
you would not concede, you remember."
" Of course we could not give in to those fellows ; it would
have meant trouble all along the line. You know that as
well as I do. Billings should have seen the leaders and
arranged matters."
"He said it could not be done."
" Which means he could not do it. The next time trouble
is brewing, I want to be notified earlier. If we had sent
Norberg out there in time, there would have been no walk
out."
" Perhaps, but it was a difficult situation. The men were
working pretty long hours —
" Long hours ! That is always the complaint. If there is
a man in the employ of this company of my age who has
worked anywhere near as many hours in his lifetime as I
have, I '11 give him a lot on Michigan Avenue ! Long hours !
Why, men nowadays don't know what work is! I don't
know what we are coming to, Browning, with all this talk
about an eight-hour day ! "
Nothing irritated John Ganton more than a demand for
fewer hours a day. He would rather advance wages. All
his life he had worked early and late. There was hardly a
waking moment when his business did not occupy his mind
to the exclusion of nearly everything else. His work was
his play, his rest, his recreation; and he could not under
stand how men could wish to fool away time that might be
profitably spent working.
Browning was too accustomed to the impatience and
irritability of his employer to add fuel to the flame by
[13]
Ganton & Co.
contradiction ; he waited in silence while the old man looked
at the sheets spread on his desk.
"Write Billings to report here next Monday; I will see
Parker at three-thirty this afternoon; stir up Liverpool and
Vienna sharply; send Rosenthal back to Hamburg with
instructions to keep an eye on what they are doing in Berlin,—
I expect trouble from that quarter, they are bound to hit us
if they can; look over our reports from Japan and China,
and give me your suggestions Monday, — either we don't
understand those yellow fellows or they don't understand us,
for we are not doing the business with them we should for
the money we are spending."
" They do not seem to eat the stuff we 're canning," said
Browning, with as near an approach to a smile as he ever
indulged during business hours.
" Then we must can the stuff they do eat, if we buy up the
entire crop of rice and rats. — It 's a hot day, Browning,"
he exclaimed, dropping the papers on his desk and facing the
window once more.
"The hottest of the season, so far."
" How are things at the Yards ? "
"Cattle and hogs in bad condition; three men down
from sunstroke, up to one o'clock."
" 'Phone McCarthy that I want him to look sharp after
the cattle such a day as this. Be careful in watering and
feeding. It 's hotter than blazes. Where is Will ? " and a
look of anxiety passed over John Ganton's face as he asked
about his son, a look he tried to conceal from Browning by
keeping his back turned.
"He was at the Yards this morning," Browning answered
evasively.
[14]
The Office on La Salle Street
" Is n't he there now ? "
" Some one telephoned he came down town about eleven
o'clock."
"It must be hot at the Yards," the old man remarked
after a moment's silence, as if trying to excuse the boy's
absence from his place of work.
" Three sunstrokes this morning," repeated Browning.
"Of course, it must be hot out there. Where did they
say he had gone ? "
"They did not know; he only said he was going down
town."
" Did he get his mail off?"
"Well," and Browning hesitated, "not all of it."
The old man's face grew stern as he said slowly, "That
won't do, Browning. There has been altogether too much of
that sort of thing lately. I shall have to talk with him, —
that 's all."
As Browning went out he left the old man still looking
out of the window; but the reports on his desk, the heat of
the day, the big red-brick building opposite, with its row of
windows bearing the signs of his competitor, no longer in
terested him.
Browning's " private office " consisted of a desk railed off
from the others, large and small, that filled the great main
office where hundreds of employees bent over their tasks,
spurred on by the exhaustless energy of John Ganton, who
passed to and fro among them nearly every hour of the day.
It was his boast that he could take the place of any man or
boy in the service of the company and do twice his work ;
perhaps he could, at all events his employees believed he
could, and worked accordingly.
[15]
Ganton & Co.
Browning called up McCarthy at the Yards and gave him
directions about the stock, — " and, McCarthy," he added,
"I want you to look after the men, see that those who are
down from the heat are well cared for. . . . What 's that,
McCarthy? . . . No; the old man did not say anything
about the men ; but he knew we 'd look out for them. . . .
Yes, he 's all right. . . . By the way, McCarthy, have you
seen Will ? . . . Not there ? . . . Too bad ; it worries the
old man. But the boy is all right ; he '11 turn up. You and
I must keep an eye on him. ... I say, McCarthy, there is a
rumor of trouble with the teamsters, — anything in it ? . . .
We can handle our men if the International and Union can
take care of theirs. The old man will not yield an inch. . . .
No; no use of the men asking anything now. They ought
to see that this is no time to make demands. . . . That 's a
good idea. Give Fanning and Scotty good jobs with nothing
to do, — they control the teamsters ; need n't put their names
on the pay-roll; send the memorandum to me." Browning
rang off and turned to a short, thick-set man waiting outside
the railing, " What is it, Norberg ? "
"Trouble with the teamsters," said the man in a low tone.
"Come inside," and Browning motioned to the chair
beside his desk. Only persons whose business was of im
portance were asked inside; Browning, like most busy
Westerners, found he could do more business and do it faster
if he did not ask his visitors to sit down. All day long he
turned his chair to and fro, from the 'phone and his stenog
rapher on the left to the railing and his callers on the right,
despatching an amazing amount of business. Now and then
the matter was of sufficient importance to warrant asking
the visitor in.
[16]
The Office on La Salle Street
As Norberg sat down, hat in hand, Browning asked
quietly, —
" What is the complaint ? "
"No complaint in particular; men satisfied, but the
leaders are stirring them up and they are getting restless;
talking an advance of three cents an hour for single horse,
five for teams, and seven for three horses —
"They 're getting good wages now."
" I know it; but the agitators are busy."
"The company will make no advance."
"The leaders know that," said Norberg, dryly.
" Then what are they stirring up trouble now for ? "
" For what there is in it."
" Who control the situation ? "
" Fanning, Scotty, and Ballard."
"I think we can take care of Fanning and Scotty at the
Yards. How about Ballard ? "
"Hardest nut of the three."
" Can't we find a place for him ? "
" Don't think so. He 's pretty close-mouthed, and it 's
hard to tell what he wants. He says he stands for the men,
and won't listen to reason."
" Is n't he one of the Union Company's men ? "
"Yes/
"Well; take this note to Littlejohn, vice-president of the
Union, — you know him, — and if he wishes you to talk with
Ballard you do exactly as he tells you. If you and Littlejohn
fail to bring the man around, report to me. Don't let the
trouble spread at the present time ; nip it now. Say nothing
to Fanning and Scotty unless I tell you to. — That 's all."
Norberg had hardly disappeared when Allan Borlan,
[17]
Ganton & Co.
junior member of Borlan Brothers, another of the great com
panies at the Yards, called up to say he would be over in a
moment to see Browning on important business. Browning
knew it was about the trouble brewing among the teamsters,
and turned to some telegrams on his desk with something
like a sigh. He knew that Allan, with his absurdly strict
notions, would be an obstacle in the way of a quick adjust
ment along easy lines. Youngest of the three brothers,
Allan was not yet sufficiently accustomed — hardened, some
might say — to modern ways of adjusting labor difficulties.
More than once he had made trouble for his brothers and the
other packers by untimely objections to the methods proposed.
When he came hurrying in a few moments later, Browning
looked up and said quietly:
" Well, Allan, what 's the matter now ? "
"What are we going to do about this trouble with the
teamsters, Mr. Browning ? "
Allan was so young in the Yards, being only a few years
out of college, that he still " Mistered " the older men in the
business. For that and other characteristics, his sincerity,
frankness, and directness among them, he was well liked,
even if he did interfere inopportunely now and then.
" Settle it in some way," answered Browning in the same
matter-of-fact tone.
" But how ? " The question was insistent.
"That I cannot tell yet. We must wait developments.
It may amount to nothing."
"I think it will; our foreman tells me Fanning, Scotty,
and Ballard mean business ? "
"I guess they do; in more senses than one," said Brown
ing, dryly.
[18]
1
The Office on La Salle Street
" And I hear Norberg has been to see them."
"Possibly; it is his business to keep posted on what is
going on among the men."
" Well ; I want to say, Mr. Browning, that I am opposed to
any dealings with these men. There has been altogether
too much of that sort of thing, and I won't stand for it any
longer. If we must have a strike, let us fight it out fair and
square. The men will soon find out the sort of leaders they
have, and we will all gain in the end." Allan was very much
in earnest.
" A strike of the teamsters would be rather bad just now."
"It might as well come one time as another."
" Yes ; but we do not want trouble now. Stocks are too
low and trade is too good. Possibly in August —
"That may all be. We do not want trouble any more
than your people; but I won't stand for buying these men
off." There was such a ring of dogged firmness in young
Borlan's voice that Browning leaned back in his chair and
said wearily:
" Well, Allan, it is a matter I do not control —
"Then I should like to see Mr. Ganton," interrupted
Allan, impulsively.
" He is over there," and Browning pointed toward the
private office. Paying no attention to the small boy, as he
vainly tried to stop him, Allan Borlan stood for a second in
the gateway, before he said :
" Mr. Ganton, may I speak with you ? "
John Ganton was still seated with his face toward the
window, his hand resting on the papers on his desk, but he
was thinking of something besides his last month's business
and his competitors across the way. He swung around, but
[19]
Ganton &: Co.
the look of impatience passed quickly away when he recog
nized his unceremonious visitor; young Borlan was one of
the few men doing business at the Yards he liked. He did not
know why: perhaps Allan's indefatigable industry, or his
exceptional business ability, or his frankness, or, — who
knows ? — his scrupulous honesty in all dealings.
" Why, Allan, sit down. It 's a hot day for June." The
old man mopped his forehead and threw his waistcoat back.
" It is hot, and we feel it, coming so early in the season.
The men in the pens are suffering —
" So are the cattle. McCarthy reported many down — "
" I want to see you a moment about this stir among the
teamsters."
"Well ? " John Ganton's tone was abrupt and harsh, for
he knew the young man's peculiar notions.
" What are we going to do about it ? "
"Handle it."
" But how ? " insisted the young man earnestly.
" The best way we can."
" Does that mean, Mr. Ganton, we are to buy off the
leaders ? "
" If that is the cheapest way."
" It is n't the cheapest way in the long run, and I am
opposed to having any dealings with Fanning, Scotty, and
Ballard. Our company will fight it out, if it takes all sum
mer."
" Have you talked with your brothers ? " The question
came dryly.
"No; but I made up my mind the last time we put up
money that we would never do it again, and they know how
I feel."
[20]
The Office on La Salle Street
"Better leave the settlement of these matters to them.
They have been in the business longer and know the Yards."
"That may be, but I am opposed to buying off these
rascals, and we will not contribute another penny for that
purpose. What good does it do, Mr. Ganton ? In three
months they are after us again."
"It is a matter of dollars and cents. Just now it is
cheaper to pay them than have a strike ; a little later a strike
may be a good thing. We shall go into August with large
stocks and low prices. A strike then would clean us all up
in good shape. Yes; a strike would not be a bad thing in
August; but not now, — not now, my boy."
"And so you will pay this ring of rascals tribute," ex
claimed Borlan, hotly.
" They say all money contributed is used for union pur
poses — ".
" But you know better, Mr. Ganton. You know that they
divide it up among themselves, and I don't see how you can
permit it. You are the head of this great industry, — all
the others follow in your footsteps, whether they want to or
not, — and you can put a stop to anything you don't like.
Let us deal with our men direct, and kick those three agitators
out of the Yards."
There was something in the tone of Borlan that appealed
to Ganton; his vanity, too, was flattered by being acknowl
edged the head of the great slaughtering and packing industry ;
and he answered kindly:
"You are young in the business, Allan, and have many
things to learn ; you 'd better let your brothers handle these
labor troubles ; they 've been through the mill and are hard
ened. You say, ' Deal directly with the men.' That cannot
Ganton & Co.
be done ; can you talk with every one of the thousands of men
in your employ? No. Then you must deal through your
representatives; can each of your men talk with your rep
resentatives ? No ; hundreds cannot even speak English.
Then the men must act through their representatives. You
choose yours; they choose theirs. If their representatives
happen to be rascals, that is not your fault, but theirs; if their
representatives sell them out, that is their affair, not yours;
if their leaders say they would rather have so many thousands
of dollars in hand — for the good of the union, of course —
rather than strike for shorter hours or better pay, that is
their affair, and a question of dollars and cents to us whether
we pay it. It is not for us to dictate to the regularly chosen
leaders of the men what their demands shall be. They may
use the money we give them for the union, for the good of the
cause, and they may not, — that is none of our business. If
the men select dishonest leaders, then the men must suffer the
consequences. Shall we insist that the men strike and
everybody suffer, when their committee tells us a contribution
of ten or twenty thousand dollars to the union will tide
matters over and satisfy every one ? What right have you
or I to assume these men are dishonest ? "
He looked at the young man with a quizzical look in his
keen gray eyes.
" That 's all very plausible, Mr. Ganton, but you know
the men are deceived by those rascals. If we turn them
down once, they will soon lose their influence."
" To make room for others of the same breed ? The men
do not choose their leaders any more than a political party
chooses the men who make up the 'machine.' They choose
themselves. The leaders come to the top like corks, and
[22]
The Office on La Salle Street
you can't keep them down. When one disappears another
like him takes his place. It is not a question of individual
honesty. The labor movement demands leaders of a certain
calibre, and it gets them, just as every organization and every
business is managed by the men who are fitted to run it. If
men get in control who are too strict and too honest for the
business, they make a failure of it and have to get out.
There 's no use preaching to those you do business with."
Allan Borlan was one of the few men to whom John Gan-
ton talked at any great length; it seemed to amuse him
to play upon the young man's susceptibilities, to speak what
he considered plain truths in a harsh, almost brutal manner.
"That may be all very true," was the dogged response,
" but I can't see it helps matters any for us to deal with these
fellows on their level. All I can say is, we won't give them
a cent."
" What do you propose to do ? "
"Fight."
" Why not give the men what they demand ? Would n't
that be more phi-lanthropic, according?to your high notions ? "
John Ganton grew sarcastic.
"No, for the men themselves are making no demands;
they know conditions are not ripe, and they are satisfied. It 's
their leaders who are stirring up the trouble. I 've talked
with our men, and know they are against a strike."
" But if called they will go out like a lot of sheep."
" That may be, but let us fight it out, once for all."
"Better talk with your brothers."
"No; my mind is made up. We will not contribute a
cent to these fellows ; we '11 shut down first. I came over to
appeal to you, Mr. Ganton, to join us in that stand."
[23]
Ganton & Co.
"I will consider the matter." Ganton swung about and
once more gazed out of the window, his right hand impa
tiently fingering the papers on his desk. Allan Borlan knew
the interview was at an end; as he passed out he said to
Browning, " I hope you people will stand with us if there is
to be a fight."
" What does the old man say ? " asked Browning, looking
up from his desk.
"That he will think the matter over."
" Oh ! " was Browning's only reply ; a moment later he was
called into the private office.
"Tell Norberg," John Ganton said sharply, "we want no
strike until August ; he must stave it off until then. The
Borlans will not contribute; the rest of us must put up the
money. If their men are called out, it does not concern us.
The matter will require careful handling, Browning."
" They always have acted with us. What 's the matter ? "
Browning's tone expressed his surprise.
"The young man has kicked over the traces and must
take his medicine," was the dry response.
"Too bad; he 's a fine fellow."
"The best of the lot, and bound to make his mark. I
wish my own boy had his industry and — I wonder where
Will is; call up the Club and see if he has been there this
afternoon. Ask for Perkins, and tell him I wish to know;
otherwise he will lie like a thief."
He did not say so, but Browning knew it would be idle to
call Perkins. Often as he had done so, he always got the same
answer; Perkins liked the son more than he feared the father.
At that moment Will Ganton was playing bridge in one
[24]
The Office on La Salle Street
of the card-rooms of the Club, and was a winner to the extent
of some fifteen or sixteen hundred dollars.
" It 's too beastly hot to play," exclaimed George Axford
throwing down his cards.
" Not if you are winning, old boy," Will replied blandly.
"Oh, let's quit."
" Just as you say, but you are something out just
now."
" We '11 settle and take it out of you another time. How
do \ve stand ? " After a moment's figuring, Axford made a
memorandum on a piece of paper which he stuck in his waist
coat pocket, saying, " All right ; send you a check to-morrow."
He pushed his chair back from the card-table.
The other loser, Lawrence Delaney, hesitated a moment.
" If I send you a check to-morrow, would you mind holding
it until next day before depositing ? "
"That 's all right, Larry." Will looked up surprised.
" What 's the matter ? Exchequer low ? "
" No ; but I am carrying some customers on rather slender
margins, and my account is pretty heavily overdrawn. I
don't want to crowd the bank too hard."
" How is the market, anyway ? " asked Axford.
"Dull; nothing doing."
" What 's the outlook ? "
"Professional market for next thirty days, then a bull
movement," replied Delaney, with confidence.
"What makes you think so ? "
" Many things, — too many to explain ; but there is sure
to be an upward movement soon, barring serious complica
tions."
" Such as ? "
[25]
Ganton &: Co.
"Wars, crop disasters, strikes -
" Well, there is not much danger of war, and the crop
reports are all right up to now, but strikes may come any
day."
" All quiet on the Potomac so far, and the outlook for the
next sixty days is good. But look here, Will, is there any
thing in this rumor of trouble at the Yards ?" Delaney turned
to young Ganton.
" I guess not," the latter answered with indifference, sip
ping his Scotch-and-soda. "Always something brewing,
you know, but the old man manages to keep out of trouble
when he wants to."
" But suppose he should not want to ? " insisted Delaney.
" It might be for the packers' interest to let the men go out.
A man not a thousand miles from the Yards intimated as
much to me this morning."
" Can't say anything about that, not in my department ;
but I would n't lie awake nights worrying about it."
" Well, if there are no labor troubles of importance, we
shall have a better market by August."
" Thought August was always a dull month, with every
one out of Wall Street," said Axford.
" Ordinarily, yes ; but conditions this year are peculiar.
There are two or three large pools that must realize on their
holdings, and I have reason to believe they have chosen
August as a good month for a spurt."
" If you are sure of what you say, you may take on some
stock for me," said Axford.
"And a thousand shares or so for me," said Ganton.
Delaney made a minute of the orders, and before he
finished his losses at cards were more than covered by his
[26]
The Office on La Salle Street
commissions. It was not often Larry Delaney lost at cards,
— he was so good a player that his friends often called
him "the Professional," — and when he did lose, the winners
usually became his customers before he left the table. He
had built up his business as a stock-broker in the card-rooms
of the Club, and his customers seldom called at his small
office on La Salle Street. Once, indeed, a member of the
house committee quietly notified him the Club was not the
place to transact business. This made him a little more care
ful in the reading-room and cafe, but in the card-rooms he
was free to do as he pleased. He gradually built up a profit
able business, most of which was carried on his books under
initials and numbers, the key to which he alone knew. This
system possessed many advantages in the way of secrecy,
but it possessed also some disadvantages, as, for instance,
when one customer, irritable and suspicious from losses,
insisted upon looking over his books and tracing the sales
and purchases in New York, it was found impossible to
identify each transaction with sufficient certainty to say
whether it was his order or that of some one else which had
been executed. With great patience and plausibility, De
laney seemingly made everything plain ; but to the customer,
a clear-headed man in matters of accounts and book-keeping,
there seemed to be great possibilities in Delaney's method.
He could not detect anything wrong without examining
and comparing the transactions of every customer, — a
request Delaney courteously but firmly refused, — so he left
the office muttering " bucket shop " in a tone audible enough
to Larry, though he pretended he did not hear.
No one knew much about Delaney. He came from New
York, and was acquainted with most of the men on the Street
[27]
Ganton &: Co.
there. He was a keen card player, a good golfer, a good
dancer, a popular club man, and all in all a useful and orna
mental member of society, as society goes. No one could
discover he had any particular social antecedents in the East,
but he certainly knew a good many New Yorkers, spoke
with indifference of Narragansett, and with more or less
familiarity about Newport. To the men he was useful and
companionable; while the doubtful character of his status
made him interesting to the women, who liked him because
they more than half believed they ought not to receive him.
His good looks, suavity, accomplishments, and excellent
manners made him too desirable a guest for a hostess strug
gling against a dearth of agreeable men to neglect, however
discriminating in her selection.
As the young men came out of the elevator, Perkins in a
low tone said to Ganton, " There was an inquiry for you,
sir, from the office."'
"Who?"
" Mr. Browning, I think, sir."
"What did you tell him?"
" That you were not here, sir."
"Quite right, Perkins. When I 'm here, I 'm not here;
when I 'm not here, I 'm often here, — keeps Perkins busy
remembering the combination, Larry," and Will Ganton
laughed. " I 'm afraid some day you '11 get things mixed,
Perkins, and then there '11 be the old Harry to pay; I half
believe the governor thinks you lie to him."
" There was another call for you, sir."
"Who?"
" She would leave no name, sir."
" She — she — what ' she,' Perkins ? "
[28]
The Office on La Salle Street
"I think it was the same lady who called up Saturday.
She left a telephone number and wished you would call up
when you came in."
Ganton took the slip of paper and went to the telephone-
booth. In a few moments he came out hurriedly, saying:
" Perkins, call a cab. — Larry, I am going to the Park Club
to dine, and I 'm asked to bring you along; come on."
"Who 's the party ? " asked Delaney, laconically.
"Mrs. Jack and her sister."
" Who 's the chaperon ? "
"Mrs. Jack can take care of herself."
" I was n't worrying about Mrs. Jack. I was thinking
about my weak, defenceless self -
" Let up, old man. You '11 meet us at the club house at
six-thirty sharp ? "
"All right; it goes."
[29]
CHAPTER II
GALA-NIGHT AT THE PARK CLUB
IT was the regular gala-night at the Park Club. Once
a week a table d'hote was served, and an orchestra strug
gled heroically, and in the main successfully, to drown
conversation; though whenever Mrs. Jack had a dinner
party, whether large or small, the orchestra grew discouraged.
The evening being warm, the small tables were arranged
on the broad veranda facing the lake instead of inside, and
every seat was taken. As usual, Mrs. Jack had secured her
favorite corner, where she could see everything and be seen
by all. Too short to be handsome, too clever to be homely,
she was of that type — common in one sense, uncommon in
another — which somehow ties the world and half-world
together, lingering wistfully on the borders of the forbidden
and not quite achieving the promised land, which makes
society either run, fight, or follow with reluctant admiration.
In short, Mrs. Jack was one of those interesting creatures
who eclipse their husbands after securing names and fortunes,
relegating them to that sub-social obscurity for which Nature
in her wisdom intended the husbands of such women. Mrs.
Jack appropriated all that was serviceable in John Brown
Wilton's good, old-fashioned, anti-slavery name, dropped
the 'Brown' as impossible, rechristened herself Mrs. Jack,
with occasional reference to the Wilton, and made her own
whirlpool in society. Before marriage she was one of the
daughters of Jem Keating, of doubtful fame; after her
[30]
Gala-Night at the Park Club
marriage to Wilton, a thoroughly good fellow with family and
money, she cut loose from all former connections and made
her own way, carrying along her sister May, whose beauty
and wit made her an attractive and attracting companion.
No one could really say anything against Mrs. Jack, and
therefore every woman tried ; she was the most talked about
woman in the city, and that amused her. Once when her
husband protested against so much notoriety, she had said :
" Before I married you, you were a nonentity; now every
body is asking who you are," and Wilton pondered long and
earnestly the exact nature of his status, concluding at length
with no little philosophy that if a man cannot achieve fame
for himself the next best thing socially is to have a wife who
can achieve it for him. He therefore accepted the situation,
a situation in which if he was occasionally required to
perform irksome social tasks, there were long periods of
inactivity when his wife apparently forgot his very existence.
The night in question was in one of those periods. He had
not been invited to dine at the Park Club with Mrs. Jack;
hence, like the well-bred man he was, he was not there, but went
with his older sister to the Ruskin Settlement in the purlieus
to hear a paper on " Social Strata, " by Miss Higbee Hig-
ginson of Boston, the net result of which to him was a con
fused notion that the stratum he occupied bore to the
oppressed masses about the same relation that a comfortable
mattress bears to the creaking springs beneath, with his wife's
stratum spread over him like a wet blanket.
Miss Higbee Higginson seemed to know what she was
talking about in her high, shrill voice. She was not at all
satisfied with the existing arrangement of social strata, —
neither was he for that matter. Nothing but a social
[31]
Ganton &: Co.
upheaval little short of a revolution would satisfy her notions;
he was rather inclined to agree with her. He, too, could
think of a stratum or two that would be all the better for a
"society-quake," — the term was hers, and it pleased her
hearers every time she used it, so she used it frequently.
Miss Higbee was one of the bright and shining lights
of the Ruskin Settlement. Her lectures were eagerly listened
to by the radical element of the quarter; without knowing it
she was the arch-priestess of all the socialism and much of
the anarchism that centred about the settlement; when she
talked of "Social Strata," the prosperous and well-to-do
were left without a shred of an excuse for living — and
with hardly an excuse for dying, since all hope of salvation
was denied them in explicit terms. There were points
John Brown Wilton did not applaud, but he did enjoy the
digs at the members of the "Smart Set," "who spend their
useless lives in idle revelry, who exploit the lives of others
that they may drink from golden chalices the blood of the
downtrodden and the oppressed— "Hot stuff!" some one
shouted, and there was a burst of applause in which he
joined so vigorously that his sister, scandalized, nudged him
to keep quiet.
Meanwhile Mrs. Jack was dealing with conditions rather
than theories, and having a much better time.
"Where's Jack?" asked Will Ganton rather inoppor
tunely, during a lull in the conversation.
" Dear me, how do I know ? " sighed Mrs. Jack.
"What a question on so convivial an occasion," pro
tested Delaney. "Don't you know, my dear fellow, it is
quite contrary to the rules nowadays to ask after a charming
woman's husband ? "
[32]
Gala-Night at the Park Club
" There, I hope you '11 remember that ; while I am so
domestic I don't mind it, there are others who might," and
Mrs. Jack glanced significantly in the direction of the
adjoining tables as if there were women present who would
be embarrassed by such an inquiry.
" Hope you '11 forgive me, but it 's been so long since
I've seen Jack. Still on earth?" queried Will, with an
appearance of deep concern.
"Very much on earth," said Mrs. Jack.
" Of the earth, earthy, whereas the angel who sought to
work his social redemption by marrying him still wings her
way in the cerulean blue accompanied by a few admiring
satellites like ourselves. — Here's to the angel!" Delaney
raised his glass.
"And her satellites," interrupted Mrs. Jack.
"To one, at least." May Keating looked at Will and
smiled, as she sipped her champagne.
"Hold, stop, not another drop," Delaney raised his hand
in exaggerated protest. "Why am I, who proposed this
toast, who framed the beautiful sentiment which we are
about to drink, whose poetic thought, next to the angel
herself, is the inspiration of the moment, — why am I cut out
by the lady on my left ? That 's what I want to know."
Delaney's mock indignation rose to great heights.
"Possibly because you had flown so far in the cerulean
you were out of sight; possibly because you were not fit to
fly with angels ; possibly — " But Delaney interrupted :
"'Hold, enough,' as somebody said to Macduff. I
acknowledge my unworthiness to be even an obscure unit in
this bright constellation ; but when it comes to pluming one's
feathers for flight, my wings are of a spotless and snowy
[33]
Ganton & Co.
whiteness as compared with the ruffled pinions of our
mutual friend, William Ganton. — There, Miss May Keating,
what do you think —
"I can't think when you are about, Larry; it 's just im
possible, you know. Between you and that snare-drum thought
is out of the question ; one can't get a word in edgewise — "
"But when your words do come, they come edgewise,
don't they, Larry?" laughed Ganton. "Here 's to you, old
boy, plumage or no plumage! If no one will drink your
health, I will."
"And I," chimed in Mrs. Jack.
" Your health and your modesty, which is so conspicuous
by its — " said May Keating.
"Enough," interrupted Delaney, "many a good toast is
spoiled by too long a speech. I myself will drink to my
health and my modesty, which, as the discriminating Miss
Keating says, is 'so conspicuous.'"
"Now that we have disposed of the angel and Mr. De
laney, tell me, Mr. Ganton, what are you going to do this
summer ? " May Keating turned to Will, leaving her sister
and Delaney to their own stray thoughts.
" Can't tell — work, I suppose."
" Do you really work out there at the Yards ? "
"Some of the time. Come out and see."
"I should like to; I've never been, and here I have
lived in Chicago all my life. But that is always the way;
every stranger coming to Chicago visits the Stock Yards, —
to me it has always seemed an awful place."
"You are right, it is an awful place. There are days
when I just can't stand it. To-day it was particularly
awful," said Will, soberly.
[34]
It was the regular gala-night at the Park Club, and, as usual, Mrs.
Jack had secured her favorite corner.
Gala-Night at the Park Club
"Why are n't you in the office down town ? "
"That is not father's idea; he began in a slaughter
house and he thinks I should. But it is one thing to start
in as a boy killing cattle, and it 's another thing to let a fellow
play in the fresh air until he is grown and then throw him
into the pens and rendering tanks."
"But you won't have to work at the Yards long, will
you ? " May Keating sat with her elbows resting on the
table, her chin in one hand and her delightfully modulated
voice expressing possibly more sympathy than she really
felt. To Will Ganton she seemed unusually attractive that
night, so different from her vivacious sister, so tall and
graceful, so perfectly self-possessed. Envious tongues called
her clever and scheming, — she was certainly clever, far too
clever for Will Ganton.
"I cannot tell," he replied thoughtfully; "it all depends.
I guess I am not shortening my period of probation by
jumping my job as I did to-day."
" Does your father know ? "
" Know ? — gad, he knows everything that goes on at the
Yards; nothing escapes him. I '11 bet I had not been gone
from the Yards two hours before he knew it." Will's tone
expressed the admiration he felt for his father's sagacity,
and at the same time a certain amount of apprehension.
"Who would tell on you ? "
"No one, — that is, not willingly; but no one dares lie
to him, except Perkins at the Club. It is more natural to
Perkins to lie; it's part of his business."
" Are you not afraid of falling out with your father some
day ?" May Keating's voice dropped and she looked keenly
at Ganton.
[35]
Ganton & Co.
"No; he must have some one to step into his shoes."
" But you have a brother —
"John? Oh, yes; but he can never make a business
man out of John. He gave up all notion of that long ago.
John is a dreamer."
"I heard some one say he is a very unusual young man."
" He has a lot of queer notions. I don't understand them,
— guess no one else does, — but he is a mighty good fellow
in spite of his notions."
" You say your father takes no interest in him ? "
" Does n't understand him ; no one does. Father is down
on him because he won't go into the Yards and take hold in
the business. John can't stand the Yards; it makes him
sick. He went there once when he was a little fellow, and he
did n't get over it for weeks. Gad, I shall never forget how
pale he was when he came out of the killing-room. If we
had not pulled him into the air he would have toppled over
in a dead faint. Father was always down on him after that."
" Has he no taste for business ? "
"None at all; cares for nothing but books. As a little
fellow he used to say he would like to write a book."
"Perhaps he will."
"Hope so. We ought to have an author in the family,
and there is no use trying to make a packer of him."
" Your father, then, looks to you to take his place at the
head of the business some day ? "
"That 's his idea," was the careless response.
"Then why don't you work hard for a few years and
show him what you can do ? " Her voice had a practical
ring.
" Easier said than done. I would rather play a game of
[36]
Gala-Night at the Park Club
bridge in a cool room at the Club on a hot afternoon than
fume in the stench at the Yards; I would rather dine here
with you on such an evening as this than pore over reports
in father's stuffy den at the house."
" But he will not like it."
" Not the first time. To-morrow I '11 make up by doing
the work of two men — oh, you need not smile. I can do
it, and he knows it. That 's all that holds my position with
Ganton & Co. Whew ! let 's not talk shop, — makes me
hot to think of it, — three men down from the heat to-day
at the Yards. What are you going to do this summer ? "
he asked abruptly.
"Nothing."
" Where are you going ? "
" Nowhere."
Ganton looked up surprised at the tired ring in the
voice. " Why, I thought you and John and Mrs. Jack were
going to Europe."
"That is given up."
" Why, may I ask ? "
" Oh, a dozen reasons. John won't go, Sally has changed
her mind, and I — well, I don't count; I somehow am out
of the spirit of going myself."
" Mighty glad on my own account you 're not going. I
should have missed you, — town gets pretty slow in summer."
"And we furnish the vaudeville," — just a tinge of irony.
"Better than that, you are the green spot in a hot and
dusty desert," exclaimed Will, earnestly.
" Thanks for the sentiment, even if the metaphor is a bit
worn."
"We can dine here often, though I like almost any night
[37]
,
Ganton &: Co.
better than these band nights, when every social rowdy in
town turns out and tries to talk the music down."
" Not very complimentary to Mrs. Jack, who always has
her table."
" Oh, I did n't mean Mrs. Jack, — you know — she can
do anything — " Will stammered with some confusion.
" Rather ambiguous. What, for instance, can she do,
that others cannot ? " The tone gave point to the question.
"Oh, she can do as she pleases, you know."
"But are we 'social rowdies' because we come band
nights ? " persisted the young woman, enjoying his obvious
embarrassment.
"Why, no, — of course not, — you know what I mean."
" Better than you yourself, perhaps, for without knowing
it you include us with the others here." Her voice became a
trifle hard as she continued : " And why are we not social
rowdies ? I like your phrase ; it is picturesque and highly
descriptive. Are we not loafers on the highways of society,
noisy idlers and lazy tramps, without trade or useful occupa
tion in life? If not social rowdies, at least vagrants; I, for
one, plead guilty, and you confess you have shirked work
to-day. Mr. Delaney, what do you think Mr. Ganton calls
those who come here to dine on band nights ? ' Social row
dies.' "
"Oh, you wretch!" exclaimed Mrs. Jack.
" Not bad, Will. I 'm one of the worst, and there are
others." Delaney cast his eye over the many tables, pictur
esque in the gathering darkness with their many softly shaded
lights and the chattering parties of gay diners. ' ' Social
rowdies,' yes; I can see a good many, but surely Mrs. Jack
and Miss Keating —
[38]
Gala-Night at the Park Club
"Are quite as worthless as the rest, as every one in the
room would be only too quick to admit." Now there was a
ring of defiance in May Keating's voice, which did not escape
Delaney's keen ear. He looked at the brilliant girl with
admiration; he knew she was clever, much deeper than her
sister, and he knew she fully appreciated the slender tenure
whereby she held her social position; but he did not know
how clearly she viewed the world about her, and the exceed
ing accuracy of her judgment of both men and women and the
motives that swayed them. Well as he knew the elder
sister, Delaney sometimes felt he did not know the younger at
all; she seemed entirely indifferent to his devotion to Mrs.
Jack, and yet he felt sure his attentions had been the subject
of many a sharp discussion, and he could see that the younger
exercised a restraining influence of which there was never
a sign in public. His respect for May Keating increased
accordingly; in fact, he was a little in awe of those clear,
penetrating blue eyes, which were so often hard and cold, and
might be — he was very sure — relentless and cruel. When
they first met, with the confidence born of many major and
more minor successes, he had devoted himself to her for sev
eral weeks, only to find that as an admirer he simply counted
numerically; he could not get beyond the friendship which
springs up casually between two clever and congenial people,
and even this friendship was chastened by a feeling of dis
trust, slight on his side, possibly more pronounced on hers.
He doubted the genuineness of her feelings, she doubted the
honesty and strength of his character; but he found her a
most delightful companion, she found him a most agreeable
acquaintance.
At the third table from the corner, Mrs. Northwood King
[39]
Ganton & Co.
was saying to Mrs. Range Salter : " This is the second time
Will Ganton has dined with May Keating and Mrs. Jack
within three weeks. What do you think of it ? "
"And they were here last Saturday afternoon for tea."
Mrs. Range Salter eyed the two in question as if they were
offenders whose guilt was only too clearly established. Mrs.
Northwood King had a marriageable sister, and Mrs. Range
Salter a daughter who would be marriageable in another
season.
"Mrs. Jack is doing all she can to help that along," said
Mrs. Northwood King, with some tartness. " I can't under
stand how some women will go to such lengths."
"Nor I, but May Keating won't get Will Ganton."
Mrs. Range Salter spoke significantly.
" How do you know she won't ? That 's what they used
to say about Sally Keating and John Wilton ; but she married
him just the same. May is cleverer than her sister ever
thought of being."
" There was no John Ganton to look out for Wilton, and
that makes a world of difference." Mrs. Range Salter
nodded her head knowingly.
"Do you mean to say Will's father does not approve of
May Keating?" asked Mrs. Northwood King, agreeably
surprised.
"All I know is, that Salter heard him say, speaking of
John Wilton, that if a son of his married a daughter of Jem
Keating he would cut him off without a cent."
"That would settle it, for May Keating is not marrying
any penniless young man." Mrs. Northwood King felt
relieved. The next day Will Ganton received two notes.
One read: —
[40]
Gala-Night at the Park Club
DEAR MR. GANTON:
Will you dine with us at the Park Club Saturday evening
at seven ? There will be only my sister and Northwood.
Do not bother to write, but telephone reply.
Very sincerely yours,
VIRGINIA KING.
The other was very similar: —
DEAR MR. GANTON :
Will you dine with us at the Park Club Saturday evening
at seven ? As my daughter does not come out until next
season, we shall be quite by ourselves. I do hope you have
no other engagement. Very sincerely,
HARRIET SALTER.
Will groaned as he put the notes in his pocket, hoping
something would turn up so he could truthfully say he had
an engagement. He finally accepted the Salter invitation,
not that he liked the Salters better than the Kings, but Salter
was one of the principal owners of the Union Company, and
it fell in with his father's peculiar policies to cultivate in
certain directions competitors he fought unscrupulously in
others. Wrill felt that the dinner Saturday night would figure
for him as a credit mark in an account where the debit balance
was already too large.
[41]
CHAPTER III
NOTORIETY
LONG after they were home that night Mrs. Jack, moved
by some secret impulse, stole into her sister's room,
expecting to find her in bed and asleep, and yet feel
ing that she might not be. May Keating was seated by the
open window apparently lost in contemplating the darkened
windows of the houses opposite, and in listening to the rumble
of a belated cab clattering over the pavement.
" Why, May, why are n't you in bed ? "
" And you ? " was the quiet response.
" I ? — why, I could not sleep — so —
" Neither could I, so I am looking at those houses opposite,
and wondering whether behind each dark front there are
pleasant dreams, or — nightmares."
"How silly! Go to bed."
"I am not sleepy."
" You ought to be. What are you thinking of ? "
" I told you — dreams."
" Your own, May ? " Mrs. Jack's voice was tender as
she sat down beside her sister and put an arm about her
neck.
"Perhaps."
"Tell me what they are, dearie."
"They are too shadowy to take shape in words."
" Are you thinking of Will Ganton ? "
"Possibly," slowly, "but I dare say I was thinking more
[42]
Notoriety
of myself, and of life, and of the utterly idle things we do
from day to day. What does it all amount to ? I wish — "
" Do you like him ? " interrupted her sister.
" I don't know, — how can I tell ? There are things about
him any woman would like. He is a good fellow, yet so
weak in some ways. But then, what difference does it make
whether I like him or not ? " adding, with some bitterness,
"I suppose I must marry him if I can."
"Why do you talk that way, May? If he is a good-
hearted fellow you are sure to love him. I did not care the
snap of my finger for Jack when I married him, and yet we
are perfectly happy."
"Are you?"
"Of course we are. What a question!" Mrs. Jack
spoke irritably; she did not like the pointed manner in
which her sister spoke.
But May continued as if she had something on her mind
that must be said: "Do you realize, Sally, that Harold is
getting to be quite a boy; that he will soon begin to notice
more than you care to have him see ? "
"Nonsense; Harold is just a baby."
"With eyes and ears that are getting keener every day.
He is his papa's boy. Are you willing he should forget you
entirely ? "
"Why are you always talking about Harold, and what
I do ? " asked Mrs. Jack, in a tone of annoyance. " I am
sure I am a devoted mother; every one says so; you talk as
if I never saw the child."
" It is not enough, Sally, to see him and lavish tenderness
upon him. He knows you love him, but by-and-bye he will
begin to see that you do not love Jack."
[43]
Ganton &: Co.
"But I tell you I do love Jack."
" Then why not have him out with you ? "
" Oh, he is so hopelessly matter-of-fact. You know that
company bores him, and he does not care to go out."
" Because he knows you do not care to have him, because
he feels you would much rather be with your friends, and
because he loves you too much to interfere with your pleas
ures. Jack is a good fellow. Men like him, and I like him
better than some of the men you have about ; I believe I could
have married Jack and been happy."
" I wish to gracious you had ! " exclaimed Mrs. Jack, with
a mixture of irritability and amusement. "Then I could
have sympathized with you — both."
May laughed, but quickly becoming serious, she continued
quietly :
"It is a sore subject, and you must forgive me; but,
Sally, can you not manage to see less of Larry Delaney ? I
am sure," she continued rapidly, pressing her sister's hand,
" you do not care especially for him, and that there is nothing
wrong in it all, but people do not know these things. They
talk and they look at us so when we are out that sometimes
it seems as if I could not stand it."
During the moment's silence which followed, May watched
a swarm of big, filmy-winged sand-flies that fluttered about
the street lamp just below her window only to lose their lives
in seeking the shining goal. For a second it seemed to her
as if she saw all society in the swarm of insects, and all the
people she knew flying hither and thither in a mad struggle
to reach some glittering end, only to fail and fall and be
trampled and crushed. In one of those instantaneous psy
chological processes of which dreams are made, the panorama
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Notoriety
of her social environment spread before her, the flies even
began to take familiar shapes, she could see her sister and
herself, and —
Mrs. Jack's voice was cold and hard as she said deliber
ately :
" You have spcken of Lawrence Delaney, and — and of
my friends and manner of living before, and I have put you
off, May, with some sort of an answer, because — well,
because I did not think it worth while to talk seriously of
matters which might never concern you ; but since you insist
upon trying to manage my affairs and make of me a sedate,
respectable, and stupid matron in society, I will tell you why
it cannot be done, on your account even more than my own."
May listened with surprise. She had never heard her
sister speak in this hard, matter-of-fact way before; for the
time being the frivolous woman of the world seemed to have
disappeared.
"You and I are daughters of James Keating, familiarly
known as ' old Jem Keating' ; when you were only a child and
I a little girl, our father failed under conditions which made
him an outcast in the business world; while you were still
in school I was struggling to gain some sort of foothold in
society. As the daughter of old Jem Keating, I did not stand
much chance in competition along conventional lines; but
I had to win a husband who had money. That I did, but
as Mrs. John Brown Wilton I was received on only the most
formal terms, and every stupid old woman in the city looked
down upon me.
" I soon saw that people do not get on socially by crawling;
that the thing to do is to fight. Society is jealous of but one
thing, notoriety, which it feverishly seeks, while condemning
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Ganton & Co.
it hypocritically. The short cut for the newcomer to
social distinction is notoriety; social success is founded on
notoriety, and while a few of the sedate and eminently re
spectable maintain their positions without it, even they do
so by entertaining and catering to the notorious. The women
they most fear, the men they most despise, are the brilliant
and clever guests at their tables. To be talked about is a
woman's surest passport, and the more vicious the gossip
the more certain her place at the right hand of the host. Go
where you will, look around you, ask the credentials of the best
known women in the room, — not the figure-heads, but the
real leaders, those without whom any social function would
be a failure, — and you will find the credentials of each are
summed up in the word ' notoriety,' that the prestige of each
is based upon the things said about her, and that men like
her and women envy her for the gossip and scandal attached
to her name, for what she has done, or is whispered to have
done.
"The clever woman is the one who manages to acquire
a large amount of doubtful reputation at a very small expend
iture of virtue. It has been my ambition to be at the head
of the latter class, and I have succeeded. I encourage the
suit of every admirer, but I draw the line where I please.
Jack has nothing to complain of except that I do not take
him, like a lap-dog, wherever I go; but he is bright enough
to know it would not do; what chance would I, Sally Keating,
stand at family dinner parties with Jack at my side ? The
invitations would be few and long between, and the guests
carefully selected with reference to my parentage and Jack's
mesalliance. But as ' Mrs. Jack,' with all the agreeable men
in town at my beck and call, I am in demand everywhere,
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Notoriety
for every good matron knows only too well that I can 'queer '
her party if not invited.
' I like the fun of it all, I enjoy the fight ; to win out against
women who would like to scratch and bite even while they
are fawning is worth while. I did it first for my own sake,
now I am doing it partly for yours. When you are married,
May, I may settle down, and you can take up the battle, or,
if you prefer, you can avoid notoriety and be as stupidly
respectable as you please, — that is your lookout, — but until
you are married ' sensation ' is our winning card."
May had never heard her sister speak so long about any
thing; it sounded like a chapter out of some cynical book,
and it depressed her because she felt there was more or less
truth in it all, because she knew that most of the women and
not a few of the men of their acquaintance looked upon them
to a certain extent as two brilliant and successful adven
turesses. Again and again had this reflection hardened her
heart and made her feel ready to fight the devil with fire.
Often in company she would look about and feel that if it
were not for her sister's money and dash and her own
beauty and intelligence, their pretended friends would turn
and rend them, and at such times the loneliness of her
position forced itself upon her.
Even while her sister was speaking, the thought of Will
Ganton hovered in her mind, and by the time Mrs. Jack had
finished, it seemed as if fate pointed to him as her only hope.
She did not love him, — that was certain ; she did not love any
one, — that was not quite so certain, for two summers
before, at Newport, she had met — but that was merely an
episode of a season, and the fascination she felt could hardly
be called love. At least she tried to persuade herself it was
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not love, but then there are so many kinds of love and so
many degrees in each kind, that who can say what is and
what is not love ? But whether love or not, he had no money,
and from a worldly point of view scant prospects, so what
was the use? Why should she think it was more than a
passing fancy on his part, a bit of midsummer madness on
hers? There was nothing said, nothing done, scarce so
much as merest friends betray at meeting, and yet —
Long after her sister had left the room, she sat there look
ing out of the window and thinking. The sand-flies swarmed
in foolish flight about the light, the walk was strewn with
those that flew too near.
[48]
CHAPTER IV
JOHN GANTON, JR.
JOHN GANTON, JR., had fully persuaded himself that
he had no taste for business. He looked upon the
Yards and everything connected with that place of blood
and offal with positive aversion. Once as a boy he had
visited the slaughter-houses, and should he live a thousand
years, never, he was certain, would the scene fade from his
mind; never could he lose the impression of those hot, fetid,
steam-filled rooms, those horrible, bubbling vats, those end
less rows of reeking carcasses still warm from life, those awful
killing-rooms flowing with blood, where his clothes were
spattered and in his fright he hugged one of the great iron
pillars lest he, too, should fall into the clutches of the merci
less men who laughed as they slaughtered the great, round-
eyed cattle which stumbled from the darkness of the runways
into the light to be killed ! For years after he could not be
induced to eat meat, and even now it was so distasteful to
him that for long periods he went without.
What could he do in such a business as that ? Nothing,
his father had said before he let him go to the university;
nothing, his father repeated each time they met; nothing, —
that seemed only too plain. His brother would succeed to
the business; that was quite well understood ; and he — well,
no one seemed to know just what he would do, except his
father did not propose that he should become a "drivelling
idiot of a professor," as he put it.
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Ganton &: Co.
John Ganton the elder had little use for learned or literary
men. His own education had been a few winter months of
schooling in the few years while he was working as a boy on a
farm, and he was accustomed to refer to those days as mostly
wasted. " I got my education by hard knocks," he frequently
said, adding, with a philosophy possibly profounder than he
realized, " Life is the only schoolmaster worth having : a boy
never knows more than he learns himself." Considering
the poverty of his early advantages, it was amazing how he
had managed to learn so much, not only about his own busi
ness, but about things in general. Like many a self-made
man, he was so resourceful, so strong mentally, that profes
sional and literary men were subdued and awed in his pres
ence, instinctively yielding before his aggressive personality.
Hence his contempt for them, for he acknowledged no equals
except those in the business world who fought him instead of
cringing.
When it was suggested that John should become a lawyer,
he said bluntly, " I buy my pettifoggers as I do my cattle ; it
don't pay to raise 'em." And when another friend spoke of
the practice of medicine, he blurted out, "Don't want any
smelling pill-mixer about my house." It was his boast that
he had never called a doctor for himself in his life. " A dose
of castor oil now and then is all the medicine any man needs,"
was a favorite maxim; and he used to say, "The drug habit
is worse 'n the drink habit, and of all fools the man who
dopes himself is the biggest."
However, neither law nor medicine had the slightest at
traction for the son, and it was therefore no disappointment
when he heard that his father had vetoed the suggestions.
His four years of university life were drawing to a close,
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John Ganton, Jr.
and nothing had been decided for the future ; though he was
to go to England for a time. Such were his father's orders
in the letter just received, — a curt, formal, business-like note
dictated to "Steno. No. 13," indorsed "File AA42721," and
which read as follows:
JOHN GANTON, JR.
Dear Sir : — You have finished your college course. It is
my desire that you now learn something of business, even
though you adopt some other career. I have placed with
the Illinois Trust Co. bonds which will yield you an income
of $10,000.00 per year; this leaves you free to choose your
own occupation. In return, however, I expect you to spend
one year in the service of Ganton & Co.; if at the end of
that time you wish to leave you may do so. You will report
at the Liverpool office at once, sailing on the " Deutschland "
Thursday of next week. You will find all necessary instruc
tions awaiting you on the other side. Call at the New York
office for your steamship ticket, and all necessary funds.
Enclosed find draft for $1,000.00 with which to settle any
outstanding bills and accounts. Yours, JOHN GANTON.
The curt and formal tone of this letter affected him pro
foundly. He knew the disappointment his father felt, and
what it cost him to dictate such a letter. The year in Liver
pool was a last effort to win him over, to persuade him to
take an active interest in the great company; the provision
for the income was a confession in advance that the effort
would prove futile. He felt grateful for this assurance of
independence, for at the end of twelve months he would be
free to do as he pleased, to travel, to study, to write, — any
thing; the least he could do in return would be to work just
the best he could during the year ahead.
No one, not even his sons, ever thought of addressing
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Ganton &: Co.
John Ganton on other than formal terms. Affection seemed
to have died out of old John Ganton's nature, or, more
accurately speaking, to have been buried beneath a weight
of other and more important considerations. With the
rapid expansion of his business, he had become more and
more absorbed, until he thought of little else day and night.
His plain and unpretentious wife had gradually retired into
the background, until she was merely the silent manager of
his matter-of-fact household. She did not care for society,
and was conspicuous only in certain charitable enterprises
which she did not dare discuss with her husband; in some
of the poor quarters about the Yards she was as well known
to the women and children as he was to the men, and much
more favorably. Yet in all she did she tried hard to keep
out of sight, to secure for others the credit which rightfully
belonged to herself; but, in spite of her efforts to conceal
her good deeds, they were known, and she was respected and
loved accordingly.
In the early days of John Ganton's career, when he came
home and told her with pride all he was doing, she, too, was
interested. But soon things got beyond her comprehension;
so long as he had a little shop of his own and just bought and
sold, she could understand it all, but when he went out to the
Yards and laid the foundation of his vast business, and
figures ran up into the thousands, then into hundreds of
thousands, then into millions, she could not grasp it all, and
gave up trying. When after a time he came home at night
with bundles of letters and papers and pored over them
until exhaustion followed, creeping into bed only to rise with
the sun and hurry off to the Yards, she began to feel that
[52]
John Ganton, Jr.
something had gone out of their lives, and that they would
never again be just the same to each other. Many a time
of a Sunday evening, when there was a lull in the mad rush
of business, she timidly said : " John, I wish we had n't so
much money. I wish we were back over the little shop,
where I could hear you working all day long, and at night
we talked things over and made our plans. Oh, John, what
good is all this money ! "
The first time he smiled and patted her hand gently and
tried to explain. After a while he became irritable and cut
her short with "Women don't understand these things," so
she ceased to ask. Thereafter he went his way more and
more absorbed in business, and she went hers very quietly
about the big brownstone house where they lived, and among
the sick and the poor, in hospital and hovel, trying to do
some good with the money which seemed so useless, and yet
continued to flow in such abundance from mysterious and
magic sources. She did not dare spend it on herself, that
would be a sin, just as much of a sin as if the money were
stolen ; therefore she must give it away, and the task seemed
never-ending and hopeless — the more she gave the more she
had. Would that stream of gold never end ? she often asked
herself; would it end only with the ending of the stream of
blood at the Yards ?
It had not occurred to John Ganton that his son might
wish to come home, or that the mother might like to see her
boy before he sailed to be gone a year or longer. So far as
he was concerned, there was no necessity for John to come
to Chicago. Full instructions could be mailed, and the
sooner the boy got to work the better, — that was John
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Ganton & Co
Ganton's notion. Before writing he called Browning into
the little private office.
" Who 's in charge of the Liverpool office now ? "
"McMasters; King is in London on special work, you
know."
"Yes, yes; h'm, h'm." Ganton thought a moment.
" What sort of a fellow is McMasters ? "
"A hard worker, very methodical."
" I am going to send John over there for a year."
" What ! — to Liverpool ? " Browning exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes, to Liverpool. I don't see anything very queer in
that," the old man replied impatiently.
" Is that the place for him ? Will he get on there ? "
Browning could not help asking by way of protest.
" No, he won't get on there, — he would n't get on any
where; but I propose to give him his chance. Then if he
wants to go back to his books he can, for all I care."
Browning was on the point of asking whether John would
not do better at home, in the Chicago office, but he could
see the old man's mind was made up, and he kept quiet.
"Write McMasters to put him at work; to put him
through the mill. We '11 see if we can't get some of these
fool notions out of his head. Tell McMasters to give him
so much to do that he won't have time to think of anything
else. To think, Browning, a boy of mine should want to be
a doddering fool of a professor, or something of that kind!
I '11 give him his chance, and then if he don't take it he can
go to the devil, for all I care."
The old man's tone, more than his words, betrayed the
disappointment he felt.
[54]
John Ganton, Jr.
Young John would have liked to go home; he had much
of his mother's tenderness of heart. Now that he was going
away for a year without seeing her, a feeling of homesickness
crept over him, and he poured out his heart in a letter he
wrote her, a letter she read and reread through the tears that
filled her tired eyes.
[55]
CHAPTER V
A WIRELESS MESSAGE
ALTHOUGH the season for transatlantic travel was at
its height and the ship had been sold out for several
weeks, he found at the New York office a cabin de
luxe reserved for him. The influence of Ganton & Co. was
such that at the eleventh hour any one connected with the
great concern could command the best on board; not that
more was paid for the favor; as a matter of fact nothing at all
was paid, — an illustration of the power of freight, the power
which secured passes, concessions, and rebates from railroads
and steamship companies.
To the manager of the New York office young John Gan
ton said,
" I should much prefer, Mr. Sanford, a cabin down below,
so I could travel quite unknown."
Mr. Sanford smiled indulgently; he knew John's pecu
liarities.
" I fear it will be quite impossible. The ship was sold out,
and only an application from headquarters for a member
of the firm — I suppose you are a member now — secured
the accommodation. They offered me the captain's room,
but I recalled your experience of two or three summers ago,
and declined, so they made some changes and assigned you
this room. I do not see how we could very well decline it
without offence. In fact, they would be quite apt to think
we did not wish to accept favors, and would be suspicious.
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A Wireless Message
As our rebates are very satisfactory, most satisfactory, I think
we should show our appreciation by letting them have their
own way."
"But I do not see why I should sacrifice my comfort
simply because the rebates are satisfactory," said John, with
some impatience.
"You are now connected with Ganton & Co., and no
longer a private individual ; and as such you will have to make
some sacrifices; most young men would not consider it a
hardship to cross in a cabin de luxe."
" Well, I consider it a ridiculous display and a waste of
money."
"But it costs us nothing," Sanford hastened to say.
"So much the worse. Every one will know I am travel
ling free because I 'm connected with Ganton & Co. I do
not like it at all, Mr. Sanford, and I wish you would make a
change."
The tone of the young man was sharp and peremptory,
and Hart Sanford looked perplexed. He did not wish to
offend John, he did not wish to offend any one who might in
time occupy a superior position; but above all he did not
care to offend old John Ganton, for that would be disastrous.
" I 'd do anything I could, you may be sure," he said hesi
tatingly, "but your father wired us to do as we have done.
In fact, the agent of the steamship company in Chicago ar
ranged the matter with your father himself; you are booked
as a representative of the company, and the officers of the
ship have been instructed to give you every attention — you
know your father has his own ideas about maintaining the
prestige of Ganton & Co., and they are very positive."
John knew this only too well. His father's aggressive
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Ganton &: Co.
business methods were distasteful to him; everywhere he
went in Europe as well as America the firm name, GANTON
& Co., confronted him, as a brand on soap, tallow, lard,
oleomargarine, glue, fertilizers, dried, smoked, and tinned
meats, soups, beef extracts, health foods, chemicals, per
fumes, — products and by-products in almost endless varie
ties. GANTON & Co. everywhere! The great sign was on
streets, stores, warehouses, factories, cars, ships, along
highways, in fields, on hillsides and mountains, on the
roofs of houses, on the sides of barns, along fences and
walls. Everywhere GANTON & Co., until he sometimes
felt as if the world were staring at him, as at an animated
advertisement.
Now, more than ever, did he feel himself a factor in the
display of the business. He felt as if his individuality were
slipping away from him; as Sanford made plain his power-
lessness in so simple a matter as choosing a stateroom on a
steamer, this feeling of helplessness increased.
What could he do ? What could any one do ? were
some of the thoughts which flitted through his mind. Though
he should change his name and fly to some remote corner of
the earth, he would surely be discovered. For that matter,
where could he find a spot beyond the long reach of GANTON
& Co. ? If it was part of his father's plan to have him
travel as a known and duly accredited representative, how
could he help himself ?
For a time he sat in Sanford's private office, thinking.
There was nothing to do but accept things as he found them.
The mere crossing under conditions he did not like did not
amount to so much, but, somehow, the ship assumed a vast
importance in his mind, for it seemed as if he were now about
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A Wireless Message
to choose once for all his vocation in life, to decide whether
or not he should bend his neck to the yoke.
Sanford Avatched him curiously, half divining what was
in the young man's mind. There had been times, years
before, when Hart Sanford, too, had felt restless under the
pressure of the organization of which he was now a useful
member. He had once cherished notions of his own — not
ideals, but very positive notions — concerning business and
business methods. One by one these notions had been
absorbed so far as useful, dissipated so far as useless, by the
great organization, until he came to have no notions at all,
but simply worked as a human machine. He did not under
stand John, but he knew he had queer ideas that must be
taken out of him, and a more tractable disposition substituted.
The process of elimination and substitution would not be
pleasant, and in his heart he had a feeling of sympathy. It
was Sanford's lot to deal with many a young man fresh
from college. John Ganton was prejudiced against college
graduates. He often said:
"Young men who begin life at twenty-four are office
boys at fifty ; you have to catch a boy early to make a man of
him"; and he seldom allowed a college man to enter either
the Yards or the Chicago office. In the East it was different;
college men were so numerous they had to be taken into
various subordinate positions. It therefore fell to the lot
of the managers of the Eastern branches to break them
in, and Hart Sanford knew from many an unpleasant ex
perience how hard it was to knock the ideals, nearly all
vague and visionary, out of a young man fresh from con
tact with the world of unreality, and make of him a hewer
of wood and drawer of water, — a two-legged beast of
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Ganton & Co.
burden. But it had to be done, else business would come
to a standstill.
" He has the right stuff in him," he muttered to himself as
John left the office, " he has the right stuff in him. I should
not be surprised — " and Hart Sanford whistled softly and
looked at the ceiling without finishing the sentence, for at
that moment one of his salesmen entered, the keenest man
connected with the New York branch.
" Did you see the young man who just went out ? " asked
Sanford carelessly, at the same time eying the other closely.
" Yes. Why ? Who is he ? "
" How did he strike you ? "
" U'mm — so-so — mind of his own — bull-doggy about
the jaw. Why ? Is he looking for a place ? "
" No — or rather yes — '
" No good as a salesman, I should say — might make a
good manager — ha-ha ! "
" That 's no joke. That young fellow is John Ganton, Jr."
"Whew! You don't say so. Well, there is something of
the old man in him, and no mistake."
" That 's how he strikes me," Sanford remarked thought-
fully.
The next morning as John Ganton, Jr., walked slowly
down the long covered pier, he watched the people rushing
to and fro, the porters, stewards, messenger boys, all excite
ment and confusion, shouting and noise, and every one acting
as if the boat were leaving the next moment. He was in no
hurry — he never did hurry. It was a peculiarity of his
that excitement in others had the reverse effect on him, and
he was never so self-possessed as when others lost their heads.
His father had once noted that unusual trait when they were
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on a street car as it was struck by a locomotive at a cross
ing and several injured, one or two quite seriously. Young
John, then only fifteen, was neither frightened nor excited,
but so coolly tried to help the passengers out that his father
afterward said approvingly:
"You '11 manage men all right, my boy; the winner is the
man who plays ball when the rest get rattled."
In his cabin he found a telegram of hearty good wishes
from his brother, and an affectionate letter in his mother's
cramped and labored handwriting, in which she said : " I am
afraid your father is disappointed in Will. Poor boy, he does
not like to stay out at the Yards these hot days. I wish he
had something to do in the office down town but your father
won't hear of a change. I don't know what it will all come
to, I am sure, but your father gets very angry and I am afraid
to say anything. I hope, John, you won't disappoint your
father too. Do try and please him and come back soon.
Will is out so much evenings that this big house is very lonely.
If Will would only marry some good wife and settle down, how
happy I should be ! I hear he goes a good deal with one of the
Keating girls, — you remember the Keatings. May and her
sister, Mrs. Jack Wilton, are much talked about, and your
father is down on the family. I am sure I don't know how
it will all turn out. Your father is more wrapped up in busi
ness than ever, and I see very little of him. So many strange
men come here to the house that he works as hard at home
as in the office. There is more to live for than money; I
wish we did not have so much ; it frightens me. I hope and
pray, my dear boy, you will care more for other things."
John smiled sadly as he read his mother's anxious fore
bodings, — fears and hopes she never failed to repeat in her
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Ganton & Co.
letters. Dear, sweet little woman, she had no thought in life
but the happiness of others. Her view might not be broad,
but it embraced no selfish aim.
The cabin de luxe, with its profusion of clumsy wood-
carving, stucco ornaments, gilding, startling silk brocades,
and tufted furniture, was more distasteful than ever; the
smirking steward was already at the door forcing his sendees
in anticipation of the liberal tip he expected at the end of the
voyage; curious travellers of both sexes going through the
narrow passageway half paused at the open door to wonder
what celebrity occupied so gorgeous a suite of rooms; he
was already paying the penalty of the notoriety thrust upon
him.
The corresponding suite at the other end of the passage
way was occupied by a New York banker and his wife. They
were travelling with a valet, two maids, and a poodle — one
maid cared for the dog. To get their rooms settled re
quired the sendees of all their retainers, several stewards,
and a stewardess; and it was no part of the banker's plan
to conceal the fact he had bought the best the ship afforded.
When he met John in the passageway, he held out his hand
and said in a loud voice:
"This is Mr. Ganton, of Ganton & Co., I presume. I
know your father; in fact, he does considerable business with
us. The agents told me you would be aboard. Permit me
to introduce myself, Jarvis Townsend of Townsend Brothers.
We shall see more of each other; Mrs. Townsend will be so
glad to meet you," and hardly waiting for a reply to his
breezy salutation, Jarvis Townsend hurried away to get off
some telegrams. John wondered if every man on board
who had ever heard of Ganton & Co. or used any of the
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company's by-products would feel free to greet him and
claim an acquaintance.
A few hours later the ship was composing itself for the
voyage. Sailors moved about silently, making things snug
and tidy. Among the passengers smart jackets and hats
had been exchanged for less perishable and more comfort
able wraps and millinery, — a transformation becoming to
some, fatal to most, women. Take it all in all, masculine
man is the better-looking animal on the wing, his outward
apparel lending itself more gracefully to the nomadic life, a
slouchy suit becoming him well.
After luncheon Ganton was seated in a corner of the
smoking-room trying to read a paper which he had thrust
in his pocket as he came on board. He did not smoke; had
never acquired the habit. That it was social and a mark
of good-fellowship did not appeal to him.
Two men seated themselves on the opposite side of the
small table, ordering coffee with their cigars. John knew
one was the Austrian Ambassador at Washington.
After a desultory conversation the companion of the
Ambassador asked :
"And why are you crossing now, Count? I thought
you were home only a few months ago."
" So I was ; to tell the truth, I am getting away from some
unpleasant negotiations."
" Indeed, what 's the trouble now ? "
" Since we are well under way and there is no reason for
further secrecy, I '11 say that the fact is, to-morrow my govern
ment is promulgating certain orders regarding the inspection
of American meats which will pretty effectually shut Ameri
can pork out of Austria." There was a perceptible ring
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of exultation in the Ambassador's voice which betrayed his
satisfaction, and he spoke so loudly it was quite apparent
that he was willing John or any other American should hear
of the action of his government.
" But why do you leave Washington at such a time ? "
" In order that — " the Ambassador hesitated; diplomatic
reasons are diplomatic secrets, not to be disclosed, therefore
he continued : " Oh, for a brief rest ! Meanwhile the negotia
tions sure to follow will be carried on at Vienna through the
American Ambassador — convenient for us, — I should
say for both parties," and the Ambassador smiled as all
ambassadors smile when they think they have achieved one
of the petty advantages which constitute the triumphs of
modern diplomacy.
Without a moment's hesitation, and scarcely knowing
what impelled him, John rose from his seat and made his
way directly to the second -cabin deck, where he found the
operator of the wireless system just leaving his instruments.
Giving his name, he asked,
" Are you still in touch with land ? "
" Just exchanged the last word."
" Can't you send a short message ? "
" I doubt it, Mr. Ganton, but I can try. Give me your
message in as few words as possible," and he hastily adjusted
his transmitter until the heavy, hoarse buzz of the long spark
was again heard as he signalled the shore. After several
attempts, there was an answer. Meanwhile John had
quickly pencilled the following :
GANTON, Chicago:
Austria excludes American pork to-morrow.
JOHN.
[64]
A Wireless Message
"Please ask shore to repeat that, so we may be sure,"
he requested.
After many repetitions of letters and words the operator
transmitted the message, but communication became more
and more difficult, and it was a good half-hour before he
secured a repetition.
John thanked the operator for his trouble and asked,
" What are the charges ? "
"We are taking no general business this trip, and there
fore have no tariff yet ; I could not have sent the message if
the captain had not told me to send anything you wished."
Leaving a gold piece on the little table which held the
instruments, John returned to his book and seat in the
smoking-room, giving the incident no further thought; in
fact, he erased it from his mind almost as completely as if it
had not occurred.
The Ambassador and his companion had finished their
coffee, and disappeared.
It was just fifteen minutes before two, allowing for the
difference in time, when Browning hurriedly entered the
private office and handed old John Ganton the despatch.
" It does not seem possible. Where could John get such
information ? What shall we do about it ? "
" Do ? " exclaimed the old man as he glanced at the de
spatch, and without a moment's hesitation, " Sell ! Is Parker
on the floor?"
"Yes."
" Put him on my 'phone."
In a moment Parker, the suave and silent representative
of Ganton & Co. on the Board of Trade, was at the private
[65]
Ganton & Co.
telephone, and in a few words the old man ordered him to
sell not only everything Ganton & Co. dealt in, but the entire
list, and give the market all it would stand for future delivery.
" Place a few buying orders among our own brokers, and also
with the Union, International, and Borlan brokers, so there
will be an appearance of good buying; let the speculative
crowd do the selling; be careful, time is short."
Turning to Browning, he said sharply:
" Have the New York office send over the ticker a rumor
from Washington that Austria has adopted a more liberal
policy regarding American meats; also tell Sanford to see
that some large buying orders at prices just below the market
are sent in here at once by strong New York brokers with
foreign connections; in the turmoil we will unload what we
have, and go short to the limit of the market's capacity. Give
me the New York wire; stocks will go off a point or two
to-morrow."
It was ten minutes of two in Chicago, of three in New
York, when John Ganton finished giving his orders ; at two
o'clock he was in close conference with the president of the
Central Railway, devising a schedule of switching and demur
rage charges whereby Ganton & Co. would secure indirectly
a rebate on all shipments. The transactions on the Board
quite passed out of his mind ; he gave them no further thought
until later in the day he read on the financial page of the
Evening Star:
" The provision market was lifeless until the closing hour
of the session, when it was suddenly galvanized into a state
of feverish activity. On rumors from Washington that
the Austrian government had taken favorable action regard
ing the inspection of American meat, trading was heavy.
[66]
A Wireless Message
Apparently Ganton & Co., the International, the Union, and
Borlan Bros, were buyers; the speculative crowd were large
sellers. The singular feature of the trading was that not
withstanding the favorable rumors from Washington and the
buying by the big packers, the market closed weak; wheat
and corn were off, pork closed 5 @ 12^ c, lard 2 \ @ 7| c, and
ribs 5 @ 7^ c lower for the day; this caused an old trader to
remark when the flurry was over, ' It looks as if somebody 's
been unloading on the boys.' '
The next morning when John Ganton arrived at his office,
he said to Browning with a smile of satisfaction,
"I guess the International, Union, and Borlans must
have bought some of the stuff yesterday."
" As near as I can gather they took on most of it, with the
room traders at their heels. We are short a big line, and if
John has given us the wrong tip we stand to lose considerable
money."
"The boy is not mistaken," exclaimed Ganton, impa
tiently. " He may be a fool in most things, but when he says
a thing it goes."
" But where could he have got — " Browning was urging
doubtfully.
" Where ! Who cares where ? If you did not stop to think,
Browning, you would be one of the greatest traders in Chi
cago; to get to the top in this world a man must think and
act sy-mul-taneously." That was a favorite maxim with
John Ganton : " A man must think and act sy-mul-taneously."
"There are plenty of men," he went on, "in the world
who act without thinking, and a lot who think without acting,
but there are mighty few who think and act sy-mul-taneously,
— and they are near the top."
[67]
Ganton & Co.
" There 's no confirmation of John's report in the morning
papers," Browning said.
" Did n't expect it. They go to press too early. But
it 's now afternoon in Vienna, and we ought to hear some
thing soon."
At nine o'clock all the big packers had private despatches
announcing the new orders virtually excluding American
pork and pork products from Austria. The papers issued
extras, and all was excitement on the Street.
John Ganton was reading the cablegrams spread on his
desk when Allan Borlan rushed in unannounced.
" Why, Allan, good-morning. What 's the trouble now ? "
" Have n't you heard the news from Vienna ? " asked
Allan, breathless with excitement.
" Just looking over the despatches ; it seems they do not
want our pork."
" What are we going to do about it ? "
"Kill pigs," was the terse response.
"Yes; but what are we going to do about the Austrian
market ? "
"Sell pork."
"How can we, with their unreasonable and arbitrary
regulations ? "
"Inspection, my boy, is a question of inspectors; inspec
tors is a question of money," was the bland answer.
" I don't understand you, Mr. Ganton," and Allan Borlan
looked puzzled, " if you mean we are to bribe — "
" No one ' bribes,' nowadays, it is simply a matter of fair
compensation for services performed. No one expects in
spectors to work for the paltry salaries paid by their govern-
[68]
A Wireless Message
ments, — we must all chip in a little." John Ganton leaned
back in his chair and eyed the young man's perplexity with
an amused expression.
" I cannot consent that our firm — " Borlan was proceed
ing with some hesitation.
" There are some things, Allan, as I said to you the other
day, which you 'd better leave to your brothers. I like you
too well to see you make a fool of yourself." The old man's
voice was rough but kindly, for there was something about
Allan Borlan he liked, in spite of the latter's " fool notions,"
as he called them.
"We bought pretty heavily yesterday," said Borlan rue
fully. "I suppose you did also, Mr. Ganton."
"No, we sold everything we had, and, I am afraid, a
leetle more."
Borlan looked up in amazement. " Why, I thought your
people were buyers."
" Just enough to keep the boys guessing."
" Did you know — "
"It 's our business to know."
" But the rumors from Washington -
"Are seldom reliable — unless well paid for."
Allan Borlan left the small, dingy private office profoundly
impressed with the sagacity of John Ganton. When he
repeated the substance of the conversation to one of his
brothers the only comment was:
" So the old man has fooled us all again, and wants us to
know it. There is n't his equal in the country, hang him ! "
That morning the provision market went all to pieces,
with the grain market weak in sympathy. Many a trader
was closed out, and three small brokerage concerns went to
[69]
Ganton & Co.
the wall. Indeed, it was so near to a panic that only the
buying of Ganton & Co. to cover their short line kept the
bottom from dropping out of everything.
"An illustration," John Ganton said to Browning late
in the afternoon, " of the good effects of speculation. If we
had not gone short yesterday, we could not have supported
the market to-day, and there would have been a panic sure."
" John's despatch has netted us about four hundred
thousand dollars," Browning calculated.
"Put half of it in the bank to his credit." And the old
man continued dryly, " It may be the only money he '11 ever
make." With that the incident was closed.
When John Ganton, Jr., landed in Liverpool, MacMasters
met him, and together they went to the dingy office, over the
door of which was the sign, GANTON & Co. Without wasting
a moment in idle conversation, he turned to the desk in the
main office which had been assigned to him and began asking
about the details of the business.
That night MacMasters remarked to his wife :
" For a chap without experience, he is about as keen as
they make them."
[70]
CHAPTER VI
THE GREAT STRIKE
BORLAN BROS.' teamsters and firemen went out the
second week in July. The strike tied up most of their
plant, the engineers refusing to work with non-union
firemen.
The firemen had no grievance, but went out at the request
of the teamsters. In doing so they deliberately broke their
contract with the employers, containing as it did a provision
against sympathetic strikes.
"You see," said George Borlan, bitterly, to his brothers,
"what agreements with the unions amount to. They are
not worth the paper they are written on."
Allan had nothing to say. The men had violated their
contract, and that was all there was to it. He was sorry, for
he himself had made the agreement with the firemen only
four months before. The president of the firemen's union
was in the employ of Ganton & Co.; when he called out
Borlan Bros.' men Allan charged him with breaking the
agreement regarding sympathetic strikes.
"Agreement be damned!" he growled insolently. "The
men propose to stand by the teamsters."
On the afternoon of the Tuesday preceding the strike
three men were seated about a table in a small rear room in
the second story of one of the old buildings on Clark Street.
On the first floor was a saloon of unsavory reputation; the
upstairs room was reached by a narrow stairway leading
[71]
Ganton & Co.
from a hallway into which a side door opened from the
saloon, so that persons could enter direct from the street or
by way of the saloon, as discretion might dictate.
The room was Norberg's private office, an office so private,
in fact, he never used it except for conferences of the most
delicate nature. When he did use it he invariably came
through the saloon, the proprietor of which was paid to be
friendly.
The three men, Norberg, Fanning, and Scotty, were
drinking beer and smoking cheap cigars, a box of which lay
open before them.
" Why does n't Ballard show up ? " asked Norberg.
" Did n't he say he 'd be here at three o'clock ? "
" Oh, he '11 come around all right. I saw him this morn
ing; he said he was going out to the Yards first."
"What for?" Norberg looked up suspiciously.
" To see some of the boys, and make sure the thing can be
handled."
" ' To see some of the boys ' ! " exclaimed Norberg. " Look
here, Fanning, how many are in this thing ? I thought you
three were going to handle it."
" Thought so myself, but this idea of letting Dorian's men
go out two weeks in advance of the others is a new kink, and
if we don't look out for two or three of their fellows it can't
be done."
"That 's all right," said Norberg, warmly, "but I don't
propose to buy up every slippery agitator in the Yards."
" You don't, eh ? " shouted Scotty, bringing his fist down
so hard on the table that the glasses rattled, — " you don't, eh ?
Well, I tell you you '11 pay the men we say, or we '11 strike the
entire Yards and do you up at the same time."
[72]
The Great Strike
Norberg saw he had spoken too hastily. "Hold on,
Scotty, don't get excited. I 'm always willing to do the
fair thing, but," he added slowly, "the fewer there are
the bigger each man's share; there 's no use dividing up
a good thing."
The argument went home to Scotty and Fanning, and they
ooth expressed themselves strongly against taking in a
crowd. They were proceeding to discuss figures when there
was a light rap on the door, and Norberg let Ballard in. He
was a man of medium height, rather slender, with very dark
hair, beard, and mustache; and apparently not over thirty-
five years of age. He was not only younger than his two
associates, but in dress and general appearance far superior
to either of them. As he seated himself directly opposite
Norberg, the latter offered him a glass of beer, which he
pushed to one side.
"You two fellows have had too much beer already," he
said to Fanning and Scotty. "Why can't you let booze
alone when there 's business on hand ? "
" Do you mean to say we 're drunk ? " flared up Scotty.
" Not drunk, but so near it you 're of no use," he answered
bluntly. "It is all arranged," he said, turning to Norberg.
" Borlan's men will be ordered out any day we name, but it
will be hard work keeping them idle with the others at work.
The men themselves don't want to go out, and if it were left
to a vote of the locals they would vote ten to one against a
strike at this time."
"How are you going to manage it?" asked Norberg
anxiously.
" Hold the meeting down town and pack it, — there's no
trouble about that. The difficulty will be in keeping the men
[73]
Ganton &: Co.
in line when once out, and to do that we must take five of
the boys out there into camp."
" For how much ? " This time Fanning and Scotty as
well as Norberg looked anxious.
"A thousand dollars to one, five hundred to each of the
others, three thousand in all. In addition to that," continued
Ballard, methodically, " we must have fifteen thousand dol
lars for our own secret service fund."
"What!" exclaimed Norberg, "five thousand dollars
apiece —
" Not so loud, Norberg ! I did not say, ' Five thousand
dollars apiece,' I said fifteen thousand dollars for our secret
service fund. Not a cent less will do."
Ballard's tone was firm, and Norberg could see he meant
exactly what he said. "When do you want the money?"
he muttered at last.
"To-morrow morning at ten-thirty; we will meet here.
See that you have the currency."
"Look here, Ballard," Norberg exclaimed suspiciously,
" you and I have never done business together before. How
do I know the goods will be delivered ? "
" My word for it, that 's all," was Ballard's cool response.
"Well, just suppose you take my word for it and get
your pay afterwards. That 's the way I 've always done
business. Fanning and Scotty can tell you my word goes."
"So does mine. Some day your employers may take
the 'high moral' and go back on you, Norberg, and we
would get left; I 've had one such experience. Cash in
advance, is my motto, — to-morrow at ten-thirty, eighteen
thousand dollars."
" Look here, Ballard," Scotty asked with a sudden clear-
[74]
The Great Strike
ing up of his befuddled intelligence, " who 's going to have
the handling of the three thousand ? "
" I am," said Ballard, positively.
" Are n't we in it ?"
"Not within a thousand miles."
" Well, if we 're not I '11 be blowed if -
"See here," Ballard's voice was sharp and peremptory,
" do you suppose there 's a man at the Yards who would let
you handle his money? They know they will get every
dollar that 's coming to them through me, and I '11 see that
they do." Turning to Norberg he continued, "We '11 hold
the meeting next Sunday afternoon and vote to strike unless
our demands are complied with; it is for you to see that
the packers talk arbitration and concessions and keep things
moving until they are ready for a tie-up."
" I '11 take care of that," said Norberg, confidently. " We
can keep the thing going in the newspapers and by confer
ences for a couple of weeks."
"You say you will be ready to shut down by the first of
August ? " Ballard asked, making a few notes on a slip of
paper that he afterward stuck in his pocket.
" Perhaps a day or two earlier. I '11 let you know in time,
and we can break off negotiations and bring things to a
head."
With that the conference broke up. Ballard went out
first, going directly to the street; Fanning and Scotty went
into the saloon, and lounging over the sloppy bar ordered
more drinks. Norberg, waiting, sat for some time until he
thought it entirely safe to sneak through the side door and out
the alley entrance of the saloon. The only fear he had was
of being seen by other labor leaders with whom he had done
[75]
Ganton & Co.
business in the same room, and who would be sure to suspect
something was going on now.
Two days before the strike Allan Borlan sent for those of
the teamsters who had been longest in the firm's employment
and said to them:
"You men have been with this company a good many
years, through good times and bad ; most of you I have seen
about here ever since I was a boy; I have ridden on the
wagons with you, and you taught me how to drive; we were
good friends long before I had anything to say about the busi
ness, and we are good friends still, — now tell me honestly,
boys, do you want to quit and tie us up ? "
The men shifted about uneasily and looked from one to
another, but said nothing. No recognized leader was pres
ent, and they did not dare say anything themselves. They
liked Allan Borlan, they had no grievance, they did not want
to quit work, and they did not understand just why they were
to quit ; but it was not for them to express an opinion. Some
where down in the city the union had voted to strike, and
they had to obey.
"Tell me, men, do you want to go out? " Allan Borlan
again asked.
Old Mike was the oldest teamster present. He had
worked for Allan Borlan's father, so the others looked to him
for an answer. The old man passed his battered and greasy
felt hat from one hand to the other and said hesitatingly:
" Why, you see, Mr. Borlan, — we 've nothing to say
about it — "
" Do you mean to say, Mike, that you and the men who
are to go out and lose their positions have nothing to say
about it ? " Allan Borlan exclaimed.
[76]
The Great Strike
" Not exactly — that is to say, sorr, — we hov our votes,
o' coorse, but we can't attind the meetings down town very
well, so it is left to others to decide, — the locals niver have
much to say in the matter."
" Who does decide it ? "
The old man looked at the others, puzzled and helpless.
"I can't just say, Mr. Borlan, none of us has ever been to a
meeting. Ballard over at the Union could tell you, sorr; he
knows all about it —
"Yes; but Ballard works for the Union Co. I have
nothing to do with him. What I want to know is, whether
Borlan Bros.' teamsters are going out of their own free will,
or whether they are going out at the command of men who
are in the employ of our competitors."
Old Mike's eyes dropped before the clear, straightforward
gaze of the young man, and the old felt hat was crumpled
in a manner that would have been detrimental to it six or
eight years earlier, before time had inured it to ill usage.
" We 've got to do as they tell us," the old man muttered.
" Even if you know you are being used by our competitors
to injure us ? " There was a ring of scorn in young Borlan's
voice which the men felt.
"Why, all the teamsters are going out, Mr. Borlan," Mike
protested.
"But not this week, or next," was the sharp response,
" not until the other packers are ready. If we had contrib
uted toward buying up your dishonest leaders you would not
be called out, but because I refused to be blackmailed, they
propose to tie us up.
"See here," he went on energetically, "you are led about
like a lot of sheep by men who sell you out at every turn.
[77]
Ganton & Co.
Look at Ballard at the Union, at Fanning and Scotty over at
Ganton's. Do they work? Not two days a week. How
do they manage to hold such easy jobs ? Because they are
useful, because they control your organization, because they
can be bought. If we had put Scotty on our pay-roll ten
days ago, you would not be called out. If we had chipped
in five thousand dollars, you would not be called out. As it
is, we are to suffer.
" Why, your leaders will play into the hands of our com
petitors, and there will be no tie-up of the other plants until
the companies are ready. They will run till the first of
August, until they have large stocks on hand, and then the
men will be called out, — that 's the programme. What I
want to know is, whether you men who have been with us
all these years are going to let yourselves be traded in like
cattle, and leave us simply because you are ordered to by
leaders who are in the pay of our competitors ! " The eyes
of the young man flashed, his tone was sharp and ringing, he
had risen to his feet and stood facing the men only a few feet
from them. In a dim way they felt the truth of all he said,
they knew that somehow they were made the tools of others ;
but the machinery of it all was far beyond their dull compre
hension; all they understood clearly was that if they diso
beyed orders they would be fined heavily, or have their cards
taken away, which would mean no work at any of the plants.
"That may all be, Mr. Borlan," said old Mike, slowly,
" we 've nothing to do with these things. We 've got to do
as we 're told. We 'd like to stay with you, sorr, but we
must do as we 're told or lose our cards.'
"Then quit the unions," Allan interrupted warmly.
"We '11 take care of you."
[78]
The Great Strike
The old man shook his head doubtfully. " Ye could n't
do it, Mr. Borlan. All the men would go out; we could n't
work in the Yards at all if we were n't union men ; we must
do as we 're ordered," he repeated mechanically.
"And you will go out?"
"We can't help ourselves, Mr. Borlan."
" Then if you do, Mike, you and the rest of you need never
expect to work for Borlan Bros, again. You worked for my
father when I was a child, you have worked for us as long as
I can remember, I expected you to stay with us as long as
you cared to drive a team; but if you go out now, you and
every man of you leave us for good."
The young man's voice had lost its defiant ring, there was
even a slight tremor as he uttered the last words; the men
looked down at the floor, and old Mike cleared his throat with
an effort as he said in a hopeless sort of a tone :
"I suppose it can't be helped, Mr. Borlan. Perhaps
ye '11 take us back."
" Never! " was the firm response, and the men filed out.
It was only by threat of withdrawing from the company
that Allan Borlan had persuaded his brothers to let him
handle this strike; they wished to join the other packers in
putting up what money was needed to control the situation,
but he had absolutely refused to permit a dollar of the com
pany's money to be used in that way. Further, he had
exacted a promise from his brothers that they individually
would not contribute, but would let events take their course.
By working large forces day and night he had placed the
company in fairly good shape for a tie-up ; but with the best
he could do, some loss and great inconvenience could not be
avoided. If he could have kept running until the first of
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Ganton & Co.
the month he would have been in position to reap his share
of the advantages expected by his competitors.
As Allan Borlan was leaving the Yards late that afternoon
to take the car, a man with a dark beard and mustache ac
costed him,
"You are Mr. Borlan?"
"Yes." Allan looked at the man curiously.
" I am Ballard of the Teamsters' Committee."
"I thought so."
" I understand you called in some of your men to-day and
told them we were selling them out."
"I did."
" Well, I would advise you to keep mum on that line. "
"And if I do not?"
"You might get hurt, — that's all." Ballard met the
look of the young man without flinching.
" For you and your threats I do not care a rap ; you and
your associates are a pack of cowards, who hire thugs to do the
work you do not dare do yourselves; you are a set of black
mailers, and you know it." Allan was warmed up, and noth
ing would have pleased him better than to have the man
assail him then and there ; but Ballard only laughed and said
sneeringly :
" Oh, you may talk to me as much as you please. I 'm
used to it, and it does you good to let off steam — you all pay
in the end ; but, " and once more he grew threatening, " I
warn you good and fair against talking to the men. Take
my word for it, you will be better off if you keep your mouth
shut. You are young at the business, and have things to
learn." With that the man walked off.
[80]
CHAPTER VII
NOT A CENT FOR TRIBUTE
THAT night when Allan Borlan met his two brothers at
the home of the oldest in Michigan Avenue, the dis
cussion of the situation was long, earnest, and at
times heated.
"You say you won't pay a cent!" exclaimed George
Borlan. "I tell you it is the only way this labor situation
can be handled, and every one knows it. How do you sup
pose the Rapid Construction Company is putting up our
new warehouse without strikes ? It 's taking care of the
walking delegates and the business agents. That is the
secret of their success. There 's not a building contractor
in the city who does not use money to keep the unions in
line."
" And how about the men who lose time and wages, who
stand by their unions loyally, who pay their assessments and
support leaders that sell them out?" asked Allan, bitterly.
"Who cares for the men?" his brother answered hotly-
" If they permit themselves to be handled like so many hogs,
that is their lookout. It is not our fault that their leaders
are dishonest. "
" But it is if we bribe them," interrupted Allan.
"No; the men are dishonest before we have a chance to
bribe them. They are looking for the bribe before it is
offered. They come with their hands open. They are dis
honest when chosen as leaders, and are chosen because they
[81]
Ganton &: Co.
are dishonest. Talk about honesty! I tell you it is easier
for the rich man to get into the kingdom of heaven than for
an honest man to be elected head of one of the labor organi
zations."
" But there are honest men among them. "
" How many ? Name three. Now and then there is one
who is said to be honest and disinterested, — though no one
knows whether he really is or not, — but honesty in union
management is so rare that to have the reputation for being
honest is sufficient to make a man conspicuous above all
the others. They call him ' Honest John,' or 'Honest Tom.'
Just as Kelly used to be called ' Honest John Kelly ' when he
ran Tammany Hall, — simply because he kept his word with
his followers, and was honest as compared with some of the
notorious rascals who preceded him. When honesty becomes
a conspicuous virtue in an organization the organization is
rotten."
Allan Borlan could not help acknowledging the force of
what his brother said. He knew that petty bribery of walking
delegates and business agents was the rule in all the building
trades, and that in one form or another the agents of the
unions were taken care of. Yet when it came to their own
men he could not tolerate seeing them betrayed, and he re
belled against the use of money. He had some ideals left
over from school and college, he even dreamed that employers
and employees should work together; but when he tried to
impress these views upon his brother, the latter exclaimed :
" That 's all stuff. There was a time when employers and
employees did work together in a spirit of loyal cooperation,
but times have changed. In the old days the union used to
be along perpendicular lines, now it is along horizontal.
[82]
Not a Cent for Tribute
Once every plant was solidly united from top to bottom, but
now-a-days it is different. Our firemen are no longer united
with our engineers, who are their natural allies, but with the
firemen of our competitors who are their industrial rivals;
our engineers are united with the engineers of other concerns,
and so are our butchers, our teamsters, and every grade of
employees. Sympathies no longer permeate the mass from
the bottom up, and weld employers and employees together,
but flow laterally in the futile endeavor to weld strangers and
competitors together. That is the trouble with the labor
situation to-day ; no industrial concern is a unit composed of
men cooperating sympathetically; but every concern is com
posed of so many layers of independent and jealous trades
each of which is only too glad if it can assert its independence
at the cost of the others and regardless of the employer. Our
teamsters will stand by Ganton's teamsters sooner than by us
or by the other men in our employment. They care nothing
about the success or failure of Borlan Bros. ; all they care
about is the success or failure of the teamsters' union."
George Borlan walked up and down the long library,
talking vehemently. In his way he was a student and a
keen observer of conditions. He had seen the various plants
at the Stockyards organized one by one, until the unions were
in complete control. Then came the question of handling
the new situation. Since it was no longer possible for each
employer to deal with his own men, he was compelled to do
the best he could with the organizations ; and to the surprise
of the packers the new order of things was found cheaper
than the old. It was cheaper to deal with the unions than
with the men. With the exception of an outbreak now
and then, when the men made a fuss and insisted upon some
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consideration, all difficulties could be adjusted by the use of
comparatively small amounts of money shrewdly distributed.
By purchasing the walking delegate or business agent, a
task-master was secured more powerful and about as mer
ciless as the traditional slave-driver; and he ordered the men
about as no foreman ever dared.
"Things have changed since father founded this busi
ness," George Borlan continued earnestly; " and the trouble
is, you do not realize it, Allan. He used to look out for his
men. When they were sick he helped them, when they were
injured he cared for them, and when they were old he found
easy places for them, — he treated them like men and they
were loyal to him, which simply means they were loyal to the
business they helped him build up. Now all is different.
If men are sick they are laid off and lose their time, if they
are hurt an insurance company steps into our shoes and
either settles with them or fights them if they sue for dam
ages. We have nothing more to do with their welfare, if
they are sick, injured, or old we have no use for them, — and
why should we bother about them? They have their
own organizations to which they have transferred their loy
alty, the unions stand between them and us, and contract
with us for so many able-bodied slaves at so much per hour
per head. Under the contract we are under no obligation
to look after the sick and decrepit, for the union will furnish
us sound animals in their places. As a matter of dollars
and cents we should be ahead if there were a horse union
doing business on the same cash basis; as it is, we are obliged
to treat our horses almost as well as we used to treat our men."
" But, George, unionism has come to stay," Allan inter
rupted in a tone of protest.
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"Yes; and for my part I am glad of it," his brother
almost shouted. "The unions have fixed the hours of
work and the wages, and we are entitled to the work of
a strong man for eight hours a day for our money. We
can lay off the sick and discharge the old. Pretty soon no
industry will keep a man after he is turned forty, and why
should we ? The unions are run by the young and able-
bodied in the interest of the young and able-bodied, they
encourage the employment of their active members, and they
have no use for the old man with a family, since he is natu
rally a conservative, and therefore instinctively opposed to
radicalism, which is at the basis of unionism. It is money
in our pockets to deal with unions on a business basis, and if
you would only listen to reason and do as the other packers
do we could control the labor situation more easily than ever
before." George Borlan's tone expressed the irritation he
felt because his brother would not follow his advice.
" It 's no use, George," Allan said stubbornly. " I will
not pay those fellows a cent. Why, one of them, Ballard,
threatened me to-night as I left the Yards."
George Borlan turned in surprise as Allan told him what
Ballard had said.
" He is in a position to make that threat good, Allan ; he
is the most dangerous of the lot. Do you carry a pistol ? "
" No, never," and Allan laughed at the idea.
"Well, you ought to; you must take no chances. Why,
those fellows control a gang of sluggers who would just as
soon assault you as they would a ' scab.' '
"I'm not afraid," was the careless response; "they're
a pack of cowards."
" Therefore they 're the more dangerous ; the professional
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slugger takes no chances, and he gives none. I want you to
be careful, Allan. You don't understand the Yards yet.
Why, some of those foreigners out there don't know they are
living in America, and many of them would knife a man as
quickly as if they were in their own God-forsaken countries."
Allan laughed at his brother's anxiety. He could not
conceive there could be any real danger, and he looked upon
Ballard's threats as idle.
For some time longer the brothers discussed the situation ;
finally Allan said he would see John Ganton the first thing
in the morning, and ask him once more if he would not stand
with them in resisting the demands of the labor leaders.
"It's no use, I can tell you that," said George Borlan;
"the old man has been through the mill too many times.
He fights when he feels like it, but knows when it is best to
pay, — and just now it is cheaper to pay."
" It is never cheaper to buy up professional blackmailers,"
said Allan, warmly; " these fellows are leeches. Give them a
taste of blood and in time they will drain you dry."
" But it 's only a matter of twenty or thirty thousand
dollars now, — a mere bagatelle divided amongst us all.
Why, we '11 lose more than that the first week of the strike."
" It 's only twenty or thirty thousand now, but it will be
that much more in a month from now to another gang, and
so on without end. Aside from the principle involved I am
opposed to paying a cent on grounds of economy."
"Have your own way, then," his brother said wearily;
" but when you have been at the Yards as long as I have, you
will find there are some things you can't control to suit your
own fancy, and the labor situation is one of them. I do not
like paying money to these rascals any better than you, but
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it can't be helped ; besides, it 's my opinion that buying the
leaders will in the end disintegrate the whole labor move
ment. It breeds distrust and dissension, it keeps them at
war among themselves, and pretty soon the men will learn
they are being bought and sold, and they will get ugly.
Why, already it is comparatively easy to play one union
against another by buying up first one crowd and then an
other. As soon as it is rumored that there's some money
in sight there is a scramble to get it. It is n't necessary to
buy all the unions at any one time. They don't trust each
other, for each organization knows the other is for sale, and
it is a question which crowd of insiders gets hold of the money
first."
"Well, it 's a poor policy in the long run," Allan Borlan
insisted.
" That may be ; but I don't see it. Others do it, and if
we expect to live we must. The man who tries to run his
business on a higher plane than his competitor will make a
failure of it."
"There is no harm trying," urged Allan, quietly.
" If you object to paying these labor leaders, why don't you
object to the secret arrangements we have with every railroad
running into Chicago ? Why don't you object to the way
we handle our assessments and taxes ? Why don't you ob
ject to what we pay the political heelers and the inspectors ? "
and George shook his finger at his brother, punctuating every
word with a gesture. So the discussion came to an end.
As Allan Borlan walked back to his own home that night
he could not help thinking both his brothers had greatly
changed in the last few years, and he wondered if it was
possible the same apparently relentless conditions would
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work a similar change in him, whether he, too, would be
obliged to swim with the current or go to the bottom.
John Ganton was in an irritable frame of mind when Allan
Borlan called to see him. Will had not been home at all the
night before. It was not that his being away was anything
new, but at this particular time, with a strike brewing and
each department being pushed to its uttermost, John Ganton
wanted every man about him in his place.
"I tell you," he said to Browning, "if he does n't attend
to business better, I '11 ship him to Kansas City, where the
work is n't quite so pleasant and there are n't so many clubs."
"He '11 turn up all right," was Browning's invariable re
sponse to these outbursts. He tried to shield Will as best
he could, and every man in the employment of the company
did the same. Even the office-boy gave Will a hint when
his father was in an unusually bad temper. They all liked the
son and wished him good luck, and yet each knew that by no
possibility could he ever fill the shoes of old John Ganton as
the head of the great company, the one obvious truth which
John Ganton would not see. He had brought Will up to
take his place, and in his boy's neglect of business he saw
only the indifference of youth, not incapacity; for that mat
ter Will Ganton did not lack a certain amount of ability, but
he lacked application ; he was easy-going and readily diverted
from the duty of the hour.
It was at this inopportune moment Allan Borlan pre
sented himself at the door of the small private office.
"Well, what is it, young man?" the old man asked
roughly, barely lifting his eyes from the papers before him.
"I came to see you about this strike, Mr. Ganton."
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"You were here about it the other day, were n't you?"
"Yes; but—"
"Well, have you come to your senses and decided to
let your brothers manage these matters?" The tone was
harsh.
"No; we will not pay these blackmailers a penny."
"Then what are you here for? You said that the other
day."
" I am here, Mr. Ganton, to see if you will not join with
us in fighting them."
" No ; you can fight them alone. You don't like my way,
I have no use for yours; so we '11 each paddle his own canoe
and see how we come out."
The old man's tone was so disagreeable Allan Borlan was
disheartened, and his face showed it. He simply said,
" Good-morning, Mr. Ganton," turned on his heel and went
out, not even stopping to exchange a word with Browning
as he looked up from his desk.
A moment later Browning was closeted in the private
office going over the situation. They called up the Union
Co. to see if their man Ballard could be relied upon.
"Absolutely," was the immediate response. They sent for
Norberg and found that every detail had been attended to,
but that in order to keep the firemen and engineers in hand
about fifteen thousand dollars more would be needed; for
that amount they would be kept at work or ordered out in
sympathy with the teamsters, as might be desired.
"Let them go out at the Borlan plant as soon as they
please," said the old man, "a complete tie-up there will
do us no harm."
" Some day we shall have to fight these fellows to a finish,"
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Ganton & Co.
said Browning, " we cannot go on paying them much longer,
— they are getting too greedy."
" We '11 choose our own time, and then whip them to a
standstill," was the grim response, and both Norberg and
Browning knew that when the time did come to fight, the
old man would win.
At the Yards little groups of men gathered here and
there earnestly talking over the impending trouble. No
one had a very clear idea what it was all about; there was
talk of shorter hours, increased wages, new classifications, and
so on, but hardly a man knew just what the demands were.
Scotty and Fanning were appealed to for information, but
they usually answered with a string of oaths which might
be levelled at either the men or their employers, — quite as
frequently the former as the latter.
No one dared ask Ballard any questions. He moved
about like a sphinx, saying little and doing nothing in the
way of work. He was on the pay-roll of the Union, but no
one ever saw him doing anything ; he spent most of his time
down town, and was a potent factor in the central organiza
tion. Every labor leader knew Ballard and stood in no
little fear of him, for in his own union his word was law,
and with many of the others he possessed an influence
beyond that of their own oflicers.
Fanning and Scotty always had plenty of money, but they
spent it freely and were popular; while Ballard had more
money, but he saved it and was unpopular. No one knew
whence he came; there were rumors lie had "served time"
somewhere out West for killing a man, but the rumors could
not be traced to responsible sources, nor could they be true,
for it was generally known that he did not carry a pistol or
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weapon of any kind, and he never lost his temper or got
drunk and quarrelsome like Fanning and Scotty. There
was, however, a glitter about his keen black eyes that the
men did not like, and it had a sobering effect upon Scotty
in his most maudlin moments.
The prospect of a strike was hailed with delight by the
hot-headed younger men; but most of their elders shook
their heads and pointed to the fact that all the companies
were carrying large stocks, that prices were low, and a tie-
up would be playing into the hands of their employers by
cutting down production and advancing prices.
"It 's no time to go out, b'ys," said old Mike to a little
knot of men gathered near one of the doors of Borlan
Bros.' team shed; "iv'ry house in th' Yarrd would loike to
shut down nixt month."
"That's about right," murmured several of the men.
"Oh-h, — we '11 show 'em," shouted a young fellow, who
had driven a team less than six months ; " they can't stand
it more than a week."
Old Mike shook his head. " It '11 be longer than a
week; those of youse who have no families can stand it,
but it 's hard for us."
It was all Mike could do in the best of times to support
his family, which now consisted of himself and his old wife,
and a sick and nearly helpless daughter with her three little
girls; the husband and father had been killed three years
before on the railroad. The old man had not saved up a
cent; it was with difficulty he met his rent and paid his bills,
and there were times when he would get behind in spite of all
he could do. To him the strike meant nothing short of
disaster, and yet he dared not remain at work in defiance of
the union.
[91]
CHAPTER VIII
A DINNER AT THE GOLF CLUB
LARRY DELANEY'S office consisted of two small
rooms on one of the upper floors of the best build
ing on La Salle Street; the confidential character of
his business did not require large quarters on the ground
floor, — " Could not afford it," he was in the habit of mod
estly saying.
There was an atmosphere of economy, integrity, and
secrecy about Delaney's office which inspired confidence;
the rooms were decorated and furnished in the best of
taste; the oak floor was stained a brown that was almost
black, and covered with two or three Oriental rugs which
were really old and charming in their soft and faded colors,
but which were so ragged and imperfect they cost com
paratively little, — Delaney often said, " Any one who pays
more than ten dollars for an old rug is sure to be cheated."
The walls were a dull green,— "There are plenty of artists
nowadays," he observed, "but no painters; plenty of men
who can paint pictures, but few who can paint walls."
His furniture he had picked up in out-of-the-way places,
buying dilapidated old pieces for a song and having them
made serviceable without being restored.
" I would n't risk myself in one of your rickety chairs,
Delaney," a friend frankly remarked one day.
' ' You are quite right, my dear boy," Delaney replied ; ' ' since
antique furniture has become a fad it is folly to sit down."
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A Dinner at the Golf Club
A ticker in one corner of the small outer office and a
telephone on his desk in the still smaller inner room were
almost the only modern contrivances in sight.
An office-boy too dull to be observing, and too forgetful
to remember names, — rare qualifications from Delaney's
point of view, — was his only assistant.
While his father was closeted with Norberg and Brown
ing arranging the details of the strike as methodically as
if it were part of the regular business routine, Will Ganton
was talking earnestly with Delaney in the latter's private
office.
"Borlan's teamsters are going out next week," said
Delaney, "and there are rumors the firemen and engineers
will strike too. If they do, that means a complete tie-up;
and if this thing spreads, it means a tumble in stocks."
"But it won't spread," Will Ganton urged, his face
betraying his anxiety. " I know our people have the matter
well in hand; I have that from one who knows."
"Who ? " asked Delaney.
"I can't tell you that, but he is the man who keeps in
touch with what is going on in the labor world, — I 'm sure he
knows."
" But what did he say ? "
" He said they had the matter in hand, — that 's all he
would say, but that 's enough, isn't it?"
" It is if the packers don't want a strike, but suppose they
do ? "
" Oh, I know they don't want any strike. You need n't
worry about that." Will seemed very confident.
" Well, I 'm not so sure," said Delaney, doubtfully. " It
may be all right, but I don't like the looks of things. The
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Ganton & Co.
market is off this morning, prices are very shaky, and there
has been a steady selling pressure from some direction for
several days, as if big interests were unloading for a drop.
These troubles, whether they amount to anything or not, are
sufficient to put an end to any bull movement. We shall be
called upon for more margins before the day is over unless
there is a sharp rally."
The two went into the outer room and looked at the
ticker; Delaney ran the narrow ribbon of paper through his
fingers and shook his head.
" Market opened weak, and everything we are interested
in is off."
He said "we," as if he, too, ran a chance of losing, and
Will Ganton felt a certain degree of comfort on that account,
but Larry Delaney seldom speculated. He had learned that
it is much safer to risk the money of others than one's own.
While the two were watching the ticker, a note was
handed Delaney from the firm of brokers below through
which he placed his New York business.
" Just as I thought," he exclaimed, " a call for additional
margins, — market very unsteady."
" How much ? " Will Ganton asked gloomily.
Delaney figured a moment on the back of an envelope.
" It will take at least ten thousand dollars. You see you
are carrying a pretty long line; we 've been buying steadily
on the declines."
" I don't see how I can put it up, Larry," and the situation
really seemed hopeless to him. "I have borrowed every
cent I dare and my account is overdrawn. I don't see how
I can raise another cent."
"And you don't want to ask your father?"
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A Dinner at the Golf Club
" I would n't dare to. I have told you what he thinks of
speculating."
" Yes, I know, but he goes in so heavily himself -
" That 's another thing. He has the money, and more
than that, he knows what he is about. He can make or
break stocks from the inside. Why, if he were short a lot
of stocks, it would be like him to hurry on a strike or a
panic just to break prices."
" Well, I can tell you one thing," Delaney exclaimed, as if
suddenly struck with a new idea, " some big fellow has been
selling nearly the entire list for the last two weeks, — no one
knows who."
" I don't believe he has. Why should he want low prices
with the crop outlook so good ? "
"He may know more than we do about this strike busi
ness," Delaney remarked significantly.
"Well, I don't believe there will be any general tie-up,"
but this time the young man's voice expressed uncertainty.
"Strike or no strike, we must meet this call for margins,"
said Delaney, firmly.
" How can I, Larry ? Where can I raise the money ? "
He looked so miserable Delaney was sorry for him.
"Is there no one in the Company who would help you
out?"
Will thought a moment, and answered doubtfully, "I
might ask Browning, — he always stands by me, — he might
let me have the money."
"Try it," said Delaney, encouragingly.
" He will ask for a list of all my trades the first thing."
Delaney pulled a statement out of a pigeon-hole in his
desk.
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Ganton & Co.
" There you are, — in detail. Show it to him, but hurry.
If the market sags much more we might be closed out. I
don't like the looks of things," and Delaney once more went
to the ticker, which was working steadily, indicating a very
active market. "The bears are going to have their inning
to-day, that 's sure."
Will did not care to go to the office and run the risk of
meeting his father, so he telephoned Browning to come to
one of the private rooms of the bank where he kept his ac
count. Fearing something was wrong, Browning hastened
over. As Will went on to explain how much he needed ten
thousand dollars immediately, Browning's face fell.
"Let me see the list of trades," he said quickly. As he
looked over the statement, he pursed his lips and drew in his
breath with a low whistle, as he always did when disagreeably
surprised.
"You stand to lose now, — let me see," and he made seme
rapid calculations on a piece of paper, "not less than forty
or fifty thousand dollars as the market is going this morning,
and yet that is the best you can do. Call up Delaney,"
Browning continued rapidly and decisively, " and tell him to
close the trades at once."
Will Ganton looked up in amazement : close out his trades
at a loss of forty or fifty thousand dollars! Nothing was
farther from his thoughts. What could Browning be think
ing of?
"Why, you're crazy, Browning!" he exclaimed. "The
market is bound to turn soon as this strike talk is over."
"But it won't be over," the other answered quietly.
" Do you mean to say there 's going to be a general tie-
up?" The young man's tone expressed his surprise.
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A Dinner at the Golf Club
"I don't mean to say anything one way or the other.
All I can say is, that the best thing you can do is close these
trades at once."
" I '11 be dashed if I will unless you tell me there is going
to be a general tie-up."
"I can't tell you that, Will," said Browning in a friendly
tone ; " but I can tell you this : you are trading against your
father, and for every share of stock you have bought he has
sold ten. I don't think you or any other man can hold out
against him. That 's confidential, mind you."
Will was dumfounded; so his father was in the market
and on the short side for one of the big turns for which he
was famous in the street. That meant a strike or something
to bring prices down. Browning was right, and the best
thing he could do was get out from under, so he called up
Delaney and told him to close out all his trades.
" What 's that ? " Delaney almost shouted into the 'phone.
"Close 'em out, — quick."
"What's up?"
" Never mind, — don't know, — can't raise the money.
Close 'em out, and we '11 figure up where we stand over at
the Club this afternoon."
As he rang off, Will turned to Browning and asked des
perately,
" Look here, Browning, can 't you give me a pointer so I
can recoup some of my losses ? "
" Keep out of the market, Will. You have n't the money
to play the game in a big way, and you can't afford to play it
in a small. You know how your father feels, — what will he
say when he hears of this ? "
"He must n't hear of it," exclaimed Will in alarm.
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Ganton & Co.
"How can he help knowing it? You have lost nearly
fifty thousand dollars, and you owe the bank here over forty
and are overdrawn. What are you going to do ? "
"Damned if I know," was the reckless answer, and
Browning knew the young man was in a desperate frame of
mind.
"There is just one thing to do," he said, "and that is to
make a clean breast of the whole matter to your father."
" I can't do that. He 's down on me already, because I
cut work yesterday and did not turn up last night. I don't
care to run my head in the lion's jaw this morning."
" But he must know in the end."
" Well, not to-day, Browning; I '11 go out to the Yards and
slave for a few days, until it puts him in good humor. If
you will speak to the bank they will carry me as long as
necessary."
Browning thought a moment; then, seeing no better way,
he sent for the vice-president of the bank and arranged with
him to carry Will. To do this Browning became morally
bound to see the debt paid, but Will did not fully realize that.
They were on the point of leaving, when Browning put his
hand affectionately on the young man's arm and said,
" May I say something to you, Will ? "
" Why, certainly. I guess you are entitled to read the
riot act to me if any one is," and Will laughed as he turned
restlessly in his chair.
" I am not going to read the riot act," said Browning, with
a smile that was almost sad, " I am going to tell you a little
experience of my own," he hesitated a moment, and con
tinued. "There was a time, when I first worked for your
father, when I was nearly ten thousand dollars behind;
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A Dinner at the Golf Club
I had speculated and lost every dollar I had and did not
know where to turn. I went to your father and told him
where I stood. He made good my losses, and he did it
without a word of reproach. I had lost the money in wheat
at a time when he was operating heavily on the other side of
the market; but I did not know this, and every one in the
office thought he was buying when in reality he was selling.
All he said to me was, ' Young man, I guess I 've won your
money; if I give it back will you promise never to speculate ? '
I was only too glad to make the promise. ' Very well,' he
said, ' I will loan you the money. That will help keep you
straight, and you can work it out.' I owe him that money
yet, for he will not let me pay him ; he will not even let me
talk about it. However, that is neither here nor there.
What I wish to say is, that I have watched the game from the
inside and know that only those win who are in a position to
control the market, to make or break prices. Panics are
brought on for the benefit of pools; war scares, crop scares,
strike scares, are all part of the machinery of speculation.
Every man who has been behind the scenes knows how they
are worked; the market is honest only when it is dull. You
ask me for a pointer to help you recoup your losses ; I might
give you one, and before you could act your father or some
other great man in the financial world might see fit to get on
the other side of the market, and you would lose again. Men
who make and break prices act quickly."
Will had never heard Browning speak with so much force,
and he was greatly impressed, far more impressed than by
anything his father had ever said to him; besides, there was
something in Browning's own experience that appealed to him.
When he left the bank he went straight to his desk in the Yards.
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Ganton &: Co.
That evening Will Ganton was expected to dine with
Mrs. Jack and her sister at the Golf Club; these dinners had
become quite a matter of course of late, and people were
beginning to take it for granted that he and May Keating
either were or soon would be engaged.
At the five-o'clock train he saw many men he knew; but,
depressed by the disastrous events of the day, he threw him
self into a vacant seat and buried his face in the evening
paper to avoid the bother of conversation.
" What 's the matter with Ganton ? " George Axford
asked of his three companions, seated a little in the
rear.
"Looks as if he had been hard hit," one remarked,
glancing at Will.
"They say he 's in the market pretty heavily," was the
comment of another.
" Well, if he is on the bear side he is all right. The mar
ket went all to pieces to-day."
'I rather think he is on the wrong side," interrupted
Axford; "I know he took a flyer about a month ago. I
did, myself, but I pulled out when I saw how things were
going. I guess he went in deeper."
"Well, he can stand it."
"Maybe he can, and maybe he can't. The old man
proposes to do all the speculating for the family, and there
will be trouble if he has to make good Will's losses."
" How about May Keating ? They say the old man — "
Their voices dropped and the four young men put their
heads together confidentially.
" Beautiful, — clever too, — no name for it, — not so
clever as Mrs. Jack ? — I rather think so, but in a different
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A Dinner at the Golf Club
way, — make a safer wife, — Delaney — " and here the voices
dropped to almost a whisper.
The entrance just then by the rear door of the three people
whose names were being taken in vain interrupted the confi
dences, and the four young men rose hastily to offer their seats.
With a single glance Mrs. Jack had taken in the entire
car and the possible combinations it afforded; she saw the
vacant seat next to Will Ganton, and with the decision of a
general on the field of battle she distributed her forces to the
best advantage, — instead of placing her sister beside Will
Ganton she sat there herself.
" Why did n't you telephone this afternoon ? " were her
first words. "We did not know whether you would come
to-night or not."
" I have not had a moment's time," he answered apologet
ically, " I have been tied up all day."
"What is the matter? Anything gone wrong?" This
time she looked at him critically, and her quick eye saw that
evidently something had gone very wrong.
" No — that is, not much," he hesitated, "just a matter of
business."
" Has — " and she bit her tongue, for she was on the point
of asking whether he had had trouble with his father. Some
how Mrs. Jack was haunted by the fear that Will Ganton
and his father did not get on well together, and that any day
there might be a rupture. The thought was not pleasant,
for what did Will Ganton amount to without the millions of
old John Ganton ? Nothing, less than nothing, in the eyes
of Mrs. Jack. She had asked Delaney, but he knew
only what most people knew: that as between the two sons
Will was his father's favorite.
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Changing the form of her question, she asked as if only
casually interested, "How is your father?"
" All right, I guess, — have n't seen him for a day or two,"
was the short response; but Mrs. Jack felt relieved, for if
Will had not seen his father for a day or two the immediate
trouble could not be in that direction.
"I have a surprise in store for you," and she looked at
him dubiously. " Mrs. Range Salter and her daughter are
to dine with us. The young lady is not out, but an exception
is made as the dinner is, of course, quite informal, and I
told Mrs. Salter you were to be of the party. Now, I shall
place you between them, and I want you to do your best to
be agreeable, for I shall have my hands full."
Will Ganton made a feeble protest. " Could n't you
put the mother at the other end of the table ? The girl is
not half bad, — I dined with them a few weeks ago, — she 's
bright, but the mother — I tell you, let Delaney look after
the mother," and he brightened up at the happy suggestion.
" No ; if you have the daughter, you must take the mother
with her," said Mrs. Jack, sharply, a vague doubt arising
in her mind about the wisdom of placing Will Ganton beside
a young girl who certainly was sweet and charming, but —
oh, pshaw ! the thought was ridiculous.
On the Club porch Mrs. Jack found some of her guests,
but Mrs. Salter and her daughter had not yet arrived. Will
Ganton dropped into a chair by one of the tables and ordered
a high-ball, — "good and stiff," he said to the boy. Two
or three men seated at the same table accepted his invita
tion to "have something," and the conversation turned on
the scores, actual and possible — mostly the possible — of the
afternoon.
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"Bully good play," one was saying.
" Could n't do it again in a thousand years," was the
response.
"Made the ninth hole in two this afternoon," said little
McDuffey, one of the crack players, and he swelled up like
a game bantam.
" I '11 go you a box of balls you can't do it again, and we '11
try it right now," shouted Slafter, who bet and talked as
recklessly as he played, and who delighted in baiting little
McDuffey.
" Done. Wait until I get my Scotch-and-soda."
" Oh, if you 're going to fill up on whiskey and soda the
bet 's off. I 'm willing to bet against a Scotchman sober,
but a Scotchman drunk is another proposition." Slafter
laughed so loud at his own joke that all at the table joined
without knowing what they were laughing at.
"What did you make it in to-day?" Will asked the
man next to him by way of manifesting an interest in the
current topic. He did not know the man, had never seen
him before, and did not care a rap what his score was.
" Hundred and ten, but if it had not been for the long
grass —
"I say," shouted Slafter, "that will be a bully match.
I '11 back his royal highness — "
At that moment the boy came with the drinks, and the
identity of his royal highness remained undisclosed, like
wise that of his doughty opponent.
Will Ganton drank his high-ball because he felt the need of
a stimulant ; the others drank as a matter of habit. With the
next good fellow who seated himself at the table they would
all drink again, and so on to a condition of imperfect sobriety.
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As Will left the circle Slafter was offering to bet McDuffey
a box of balls a hole that he could not beat an Irishman the
latter did not like. Little McDuffey's sunburnt face fired a
darker red with indignation at the suggestion, and in his rage
he relapsed into broad Scotch mixed with profanity, much
to the delight of his tormentor.
May Keating was talking with several athletic young
women. One of them, a girl whose reddish brown hair
found an echoing note in the color of the Russia leather
shoes beneath her short duck skirt, was just saying, viva
ciously,
" I should have given him a piece of my mind if he had
done that to me."
"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed another, whose heavy eye
brows, almost meeting over her nose, gave her face a strong,
almost coarse look. " Who cares nowadays what a man does,
so long as he — " at that moment she noticed Will Ganton
approaching, and stopped short.
"I hope," he said embarrassed, "I do not intrude."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed one.
"Not at all," said the young woman with the dark eyes
and heavy eyebrows, regaining her assurance. "We were
just discussing whether being drunk is any excuse for a man
who kisses another man's wife."
"Why — that depends — I suppose — " The cynical
coolness of the question staggered him so he could get no
farther.
"Exactly," she continued, enjoying his confusion; "as
Mr. Ganton says, it depends, of course, upon the degree
and nature of the intoxication. If spirituous, then he is
excusable from the husband's point of view, but not the
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wife's; if spiritual, then from the wife's point of view, but
not the husband's. But I contend a woman would rather
have the kiss drunk than miss it sober; don't you think so,
Mr. Ganton ? " and her laugh had an unpleasant ring
which seemed to go with the heavy eyebrows and the mas
culine cast of her features. She was one of the brilliant
young married women of the smart set, and Will Ganton
dreaded her tongue. It always seemed to him she was
talking either at or about some one in an uncomfortably
pointed way. Moreover, she did not care what she said, and
every now and then reduced a dinner-table to silence with a
remark which might have challenged the attention of the
police if uttered in public. She could make most men blush,
and took delight in doing so, yet every hostess seemed to
consider her an indispensable element in every social func
tion.
"People cannot talk sense; they are tired of nonsense;
and there is nothing but inde-cence left," she once said to a
young clergyman who was vainly struggling to keep conver
sation within bounds.
May Keating looked bored. She did not care for young
Mrs. Trelway or for her manner of talking; not that she ob
jected particularly to her reckless allusions to things com
monly supposed to be avoided in polite society, but because
she did not like the woman. Possibly it was due to the fact
that she was considered so very brilliant, possibly because
she had the faculty of carrying men by storm, and of doing
as she pleased generally, — but who can divine the hidden
causes of feminine aversions ? The two young women dis
liked each other so cordially they invariably sought one an
other's company.
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On account of this feeling of antipathy, Mrs. Trelway
took especial delight in embarrassing Will Ganton and mak
ing him appear at a disadvantage.
" You have n't answered my question, Mr. Ganton,"
she insisted maliciously. " Would n't a woman rather have
the kiss —
" Really, Carrie," interrupted May Keating, indifferently,
"don't you think you are in a better position to answer that
question than Mr. Ganton ? "
" Why, that depends, as Mr. Ganton is so fond of saying,
upon the extent and variety of his experiences. We all
know," she continued brutally, "that he has been drunk and
sober often enough to find out, but perhaps he lacks the
courage in either state." Again she laughed, this time sneer-
ingly, and Will Ganton began to feel ill at ease and angry.
"The question is not the courage of the man," said May
Keating sharply, "but the desire of the woman; and I am
afraid, Carrie, you are the only one of us who can speak with
authority."
" What rot! " and the heavy eyebrows drew a trifle nearer
together. " That sort of hypocrisy makes life a burden ; in
another moment you will all be protesting you have never
been kissed, and don't want to be. What do you think of
these petit es demoiselles, Mr. Ganton ? Are they not charm
ing in their naivete? What a pity their fresh innocence
should be subjected to the vicious atmosphere of this de
praved Club, where they are so sure to hear things that will
shock them; or is it possible they have come to this horrid
place to be shocked ? " and she poured out a stream of witty
and ironical remarks which convulsed her companions.
Even May Keating was amused; Will Ganton alone failed
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A Dinner at the Golf Club
to see anything to laugh at, and was sure that in some way
he was the butt of her wit.
As the little group separated to get ready for dinner, he
stood for a few moments with May Keating.
" I can't see what you all find to laugh at in the stuff she
gets off," he said by way of protest.
" Oh, she has a sharp way of putting things." The tone
of the response exhibited the indifference of the young woman
to anything Mrs. Trelway might say.
" Too infernally sharp to suit me, — always poking fun at
some one, — I don't like her," and he went on in an injured
manner as if May Keating were partly to blame for his fan
cied humiliation.
"She was not referring especially to you; she was ridi
culing us : could n't you see that ? " A slight accent of impa
tience could be heard in her voice; there were times when
Will Ganton seemed positively dense, and that was a trait
May Keating could not tolerate, for stupidity grated upon her
nerves like the filing of a saw. She sometimes said to her
sister, " I can't stand it, — I can't stand it ; I shall fly to
pieces some day, — I know I shall." Mrs. Jack always tried
to sooth her by dwelling upon Will's good qualities, his un
failing good nature, his generosity and kindness of heart.
" Yes, those are the qualities that go with stupidity," she
answered once, "the brilliant man is never good-natured,
kind, or generous except by fits and starts. If he were he
would be commonplace, and not brilliant."
It was when they were in the company of clever people
that Will Ganton showed to the greatest disadvantage. He
was not bright, he was not witty, and he was neither well
read nor well informed. Writh his own companions he was
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a good fellow and well liked ; in society he was considered a
trifle heavy, and never, save by accident, was he placed next
the guest of the occasion. What a contrast between him and
Larry Delaney, who could rise or sink to any level of con
versation with facility, who could meet even Mrs. Trelway
on her own doubtful footing, and come as near reducing her
to silence as any living being.
At dinner Will Ganton had Mrs. Range Salter on his
right and her daughter on his left; immediately opposite were
Mrs. Trelway and Delaney, a combination he dreaded.
When he saw Mrs. Trelway take in Mrs. Range Salter and
her daughter at a glance, then look at him and whisper some
thing to her companion who nodded his head and laughed,
Will felt sure there were uncomfortable moments in store
for him, with May Keating too far away to help.
Mrs. Salter greeted him with marked cordiality.
"Wrhy haven't you been to see us, Mr. Ganton," she
asked, with as much of a look of grieved resentment as her
round, plump face could express.
" I have been so — so very busy," he stammered, suddenly
remembering he had not been near them since their dinner
at the Club.
"But I have seen you very often at the Club with others,"
she insisted, with an arch look. Mrs. Range Salter, like
many short and plump women, was apt to forget she was
no longer a girl.
"Why, mamma," interrupted her daughter, "if Mr.
Ganton has been busy, that is surely a good excuse." It was
said so sweetly, Will Ganton looked at her gratefully and felt
all the more guilty.
" I shall come and see you at once," he said with the
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A Dinner at the Golf Club
emphatic earnestness of a man who knows he has neglected
a social duty.
" If you really wish to see us you will have to come very
soon, for we are going away next week;" and Julia Salter
smiled as all young girls smile when they talk of holiday trips.
" Where are you going ? " he asked with sudden interest.
"To Manchester-by-the-Sea."
" For the summer ? "
" Oh, no ; only for August. Then perhaps to the White
Mountains, though we may come home if papa cannot join
us. He says there may be a strike, or something of that kind,
and if there is he will have to remain in Chicago. Do you
think there will be a strike, Mr. Ganton ? " she looked up at
him as if he knew all about the matter, and he felt flattered
at this confidence. " Oh, dear, I hope there won't be," she
continued, without giving him a chance to reply, " for papa
has taken no vacation for three years."
" My father has never taken one," he said.
"Never taken a vacation! " she exclaimed, her eyes wide
open. "I think that is just awful. Don't you believe in
vacations, Mr. Ganton ? " and again she looked up at him
as if his opinion would be quite conclusive.
"I should say so. I think a man works better after a
little play." He looked down at her patronizingly, as if the
cares of the industrial state rested heavily on his shoulders.
" But I don't see why you should need a vacation, you do not
work," he continued lightly.
" Oh, but I have ever so many things to do. I am busy
from morning to night ; ask mamma. "
"What is that, Julia? " asked Mrs. Salter, turning from
the man next her, who was beginning to look bored.
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" Mr. Ganton thinks I have nothing to do, and I told him
to ask you if I 'm not busy from morning to night."
"You have no idea, Mr. Ganton, how much the dear
child does," exclaimed Mrs. Salter, with all the enthusiasm
of a mother describing the merits of a marriageable daughter;
and she proceeded to tell that Julia could sew a little, cook
a little, and keep house. " I believe in teaching young girls
how to keep house, so they will not be dependent on their
servants when they are married."
He knew Mrs. Trelway was taking in every word, for Mrs.
Salter did not lower her voice in describing the accomplish
ments of her daughter.
"How perfectly delightful!" Mrs. Trelway interrupted
in a clear loud voice. " What an accomplished wife Julia will
make, Mrs. Salter! Now if she can only play and sing a
little, and paint a little and bind books, she is a paragon.
May," she called down the table, "you should hear this list
of accomplishments. Can you sew ? I can't mend even my
own stockings, to say nothing of poor Billy's socks."
Mrs. Salter was furious, but she did not quite know how
to resent the cool impertinence of the young woman who
was leaning on her elbows and playing with a flower as care
lessly and indifferently as if her remarks were of the most
casual nature.
"Really," Carrie Trelway continued in the same tone,
"I think mothers ought to furnish prospective suitors with
printed lists of their daughter's accomplishments, don't you,
Mrs. Salter ? "
"It would be more to the point to furnish lists of their
disagreeable qualities, Mrs. Trelway," was the angry retort.
" Why, yes, if not too long, — a very happy thought, — or,
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better still, a list of vices. I 'm sure every man would rather
have a list of a woman's vices than of her virtues. Is n't that
true, Mr. Ganton ? " Under the bold, straightforward look
of Mrs. Trelway's dark eyes Will was so confused he could
only stammer,
" It — depends — "
" Precisely. I agree with Mr. Ganton perfectly — his
views are always so interesting," she ran on ironically.
"You should have heard, May," — May and the entire
table had heard everything. "We all think mothers should
compile and print a list of their daughters' vices as well as
virtues."
"With due regard to postal regulations," interrupted
Delaney, softly.
"And hand them to prospective suitors," she continued,
noticing Delaney's remark only by hitting him in the face
with the flower in her hand.
"Some might never get married, Mrs. Trelway, if that
custom were in vogue." Mrs. Salter was still angry.
" I dare say, — but who knows ? Men are such queer
creatures, they seem to prefer vices to virtues. Take Mr.
Salter, for instance."
" I will thank you to leave Mr. Salter out of the discussion,
Mrs. Trelway." Mrs. Range Salter's cheeks were getting
just a little white, and Delaney could see an explosion was
imminent.
"That 's fair," he interrupted. "Suppose you use Billy
by way of illustration. What would he have done if he had
had — " Delaney hesitated.
" If he had had a list of my vices," exclaimed Mrs. Trel
way, coolly, " he would have been more madly in love than
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ever. As it is, he loves me for the few he has discovered. He
has never tried to find out my many virtues, — a man never
loves a woman for her virtues," she added with conviction.
Julia Salter was listening with both ears wide open. She
had often met Mrs. Trelway, but had never heard her talk,
and all these queer notions came so much like dashes of cold
water that she caught her breath at every third word.
Slafter, McDuffey, and a party of men in red jackets, at
an adjoining table, soon became as boisterous as men usually
become under the influence of golf and whiskey. As their
disputes waxed warm and their hilarity ran high, Mrs. Range
Salter began to have misgivings about her wisdom in permit
ting her daughter to dine at the Club. But the daughter was
greatly diverted by the men in the red coats. Later, when
Slafter got up — not without difficulty — and proposed the
health of the prettiest girl in the room, she blushed, for she
felt sure he meant her, he had looked so directly at her.
The shouts of "Hear! hear!" which greeted the toast, and
her daughter's red cheeks, quite convinced Mrs. Salter she
had made a mistake in coming.
" How those men act, Mr. Ganton ! " she exclaimed appre
hensively, "I do hope they are not drunk," and her round,
plump face betrayed the anxiety she felt.
"They 're all right," he answered reassuringly, "they 're
a pretty noisy crowd, but they don't mean anything."
" Who is the man at the head of the table ? " Julia Salter
asked, with all the curiosity of a child, indicating Slafter.
"The man who proposed your health?" Will asked,
smiling.
" He did n't propose my health," she contradicted, at the
same time blushing violently.
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"You know he did," he continued mischievously, "for I
saw him look right at you, and I believe he nodded or some
thing of the kind."
"Why, Mr. Ganton, he did nothing of the kind. How
you can fib, — mamma will hear you ! " By this time she was
covered with confusion and looked apprehensively toward
her mother. She was talking across the table to Mrs. Trel-
way, who was saying,
" From my observation, the young women of to-day know
more than their mothers and nearly as much as their fathers."
" I can't agree with you, Mrs. Trelway," said Mrs. Salter,
sharply.
" That is because you are not a young woman, Mrs. Salter.
Ask your daughter," was the curt response.
"There are some things my daughter does not discuss."
"With her mother, perhaps."
" With any one. I wish you to understand, Mrs. Trelway — "
The dispute was becoming acrimonious, and Delaney again
hastened to intervene.
"I quite agree with Mrs. Salter," he said diplomatically;
" there are many things young people should not discuss — "
"'Should not,' — that 's another thing," interrupted Mrs.
Trelway. "Mrs. Salter said they did not; I say they do.
Suppose we submit the matter to Miss Julia, since she is the
only one at the table who can tell us."
Julia Salter was again listening to the extraordinary de
bate; she was fascinated by the dark, penetrating eyes and
the heavy eyebrows of Mrs. Trelway, and felt sure she must
know all about what she was saying; and she knew her
mother was so hopelessly old-fashioned and stupid about
many things.
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"Does Miss Salter look as if she were ignorant of any
thing ? " Mrs. Trelway gave a quizzical glance at the young
girl, who again blushed violently.
Delaney tried to divert his companion, and Mrs. Salter
was about to make a sharp rejoinder, when the room was
reduced to silence by Slafter, who straggled to his feet once
more with all the audacity of his condition, and called out
loudly,
" Mrs. Jack, we want to drink to the health of Mr. Jack.
Where is he ? "
Without a moment's hesitation Mrs. Jack answered,
" At home ; he declined to come because you men are apt to
disgrace yourselves by drinking too much,"
" Here 's to the man who gets a drink
And lays it on his brother;
May he live and die of old age,
And never get another!"
was the maudlin response of Slafter as he waved his glass
high in the air, spilling half its contents on the red head of
little McDuffey.
By this time Mrs. Range Salter was so nervous she could
not remain quiet. " Don't you think we 'd better go ? " she
whispered to Will Ganton. He felt, himself, that it would
be just as well if the dinner could be brought to an end, and
apparently Mrs. Jack was of the same opinion, for she told the
waiter they would have their coffee on the porch, and giving
the signal, they all rose to leave; but they did not escape a
parting shot from Slafter who called out,
" Here 'sh to the departing stars who leave ush to grope —
and drink in darknesh."
"I say, Slafter," said little McDuffey, admiringly, as he
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mopped the champagne off his head with a napkin, "you 're
a poet."
When on the porch Mrs. Jack asked Delaney at the first
opportunity,
" What is the matter with Will to-day ? He is not at all
like himself."
"Lost some money in the market," Delaney replied
laconically.
" Very much ? "
" No-o. Forty or fifty thousand, more or less," was the
evasive answer.
"Surely, he would not feel that."
" He has no money of his own, and I fancy his father is
down on speculation, — that is, on Will's speculating."
Mrs. Jack's face clouded over. " He ought to have sense
enough to keep on the right side of his father. What idiots
some men are!"
"Will Ganton needs a clear-headed wife to keep him
straight. The fact is, he 's not strong enough to stand alone,
and the right sort of a wife would make a man of him." That
was Delaney's honest opinion, and more than once he had
told Will Ganton he ought to marry. Mrs. Jack was decid
edly of the same opinion, but she did not want her sister to
marry him if there was any doubt about his prospects in
life. From her point of view it was all well enough for a
clever woman to marry a dull husband, provided the husband
had sufficient wealth to offset his stupidity.
" Money is clever, — so very clever," she often said.
On the train going back to the city Will and May Keating
sat together; but they had little to say. He was moody and
she quiet. It was a moonlight night, and as she pressed her
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face close against the window-pane and looked out upon the
fields and villages as they sped by, it seemed to her as if she
were looking out upon another world, a strange and unknown
world. Though she knew perfectly each little village flying
by in the silvery moonlight, they appeared like the ghosts and
shadows of reality in a land of dreams, her imagination
carrying her farther and farther away until in her flight she
had left the earth far behind. She was half asleep and
really dreaming, when the sound of Will Ganton's voice
rudely aroused her.
" I say, May, you 're not very talkative this evening.
Perhaps you 'd rather have some one else sit here." This
was said in a tone that irritated her almost beyond endurance.
" No ; I don 't see why you say that. I was looking out
the window ; it is a lovely night. "
" That may be, but I can tell you I have had a deucedly
disagreeable evening. "
" Why, I thought you were having a delightful time with
Julia Salter."
" She 's all right — mighty pretty girl ; but I can't
stand that Mrs. Trelway."
" No, so you said. "
" She thinks she is so very clever."
"She is clever."
" Well, I don't see it, unless making other people mighty
uncomfortable is being clever." He warmed up as he re
called his injuries.
She made no answer; there was nothing to be said.
They relapsed into silence. The matter, however, followed
a devious path through his brain, and he suddenly ex
claimed,
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" May, you ought to marry a clever fellow like — like
Delaney."
"I do not care for Mr. Delaney." Her tone betrayed the
irritation she felt.
"I don't mean Delaney himself," he hastened to add,
" but some one as bright as he is."
" Clever people are not the easiest to get on with, as you
might imagine from Mrs. Trelway's case."
" Gad ! " he exclaimed, " I would not be in Billy Trelway's
shoes for a fortune."
" Nor I in the shoes of a Mrs. Delaney," she added, smiling.
There was something in her manner that lent him con
fidence and restored his good humor. For the moment he
forgot his losses, the dinner, and even Mrs. Trelway with her
unflinching black eyes and heavy eyebrows ; he only remem
bered he was seated by the side of May Keating, and that
every one seemed to take it for granted he alone had the right
to sit with her.
" Do you think you could marry a man who is not clever ? "
he asked in a tone that she knew implied more than the mere
words. She hesitated; she knew the question would come
sooner or later, but she had not expected it in that form.
Yet it was the very thing she had been asking herself for a
long time, " Can I marry a man who is not clever, who is, on
the contrary, dull and heavy ? Can I do it ? " Suddenly
she found herself in a corner where she must answer, and she
could not ; she could not bring herself even to say that she
might; that, she knew, meant she would. Still, she knew
she should not say no.
" Really, " — she hardly knew how to get out of the pre
dicament, — "that question will never arise."
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"Yes, it will," he doggedly persisted; "tell me, May, do
you think you could marry a man as dull and stupid as —
he hesitated, only to blurt out, " as stupid as I am ? "
There, he had said it. He did not look up at her, but he
noticed she grasped the fan lying in her lap so tightly that
she broke one of the sticks, and he wondered what that
meant. It seemed a long time before she replied, — so long
he began to think she had not understood, and was on the
point of asking again, when she replied slowly in a low voice :
"I think I could."
"And that means you will, May? " he asked eagerly, for
he began to be filled with delight at the thought of really
winning and having as his own the beautiful girl by his side.
"Yes," she answered; this time with an accent of de
termination, as if her mind was made up, and there was no
longer any use debating the matter.
When he sought to look into her eyes to confirm his hap
piness, she turned and once more pressed her face against
the window; but though the moon was still gorgeously
bright, its silvery beams fell upon grim reality, the dirty streets
and alleys, and the wretched hovels of the outskirts of the
great city.
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CHAPTER IX
A DAUGHTER OF JEM KEATING
FOR some days Will Ganton worked in his hot, stuffy
office at the Yards as he had never worked before.
He carefully avoided his father, spending his nights at
the Golf Club. He took an early train into the city, and fre
quently remained at his desk until six or seven. He knew
that soon or late he would have to tell his father about his
losses and his indebtedness to the bank, but to his surprise
he found he felt less hesitation about speaking of his financial
troubles than of his engagment to May Keating. He and
she had agreed to keep the engagement secret for a time;
for some reason she did not care to have it announced, and
he much preferred to tell his father in his own way ; though
why he should hesitate he did not know, for the question of
his marrying had never been discussed by them. The en
gagement, however, was noised about, — not as an admitted
fact, but as one well authenticated. Mrs. Jack took pains
to tell two or three of her intimate friends, " quite confiden
tially," and each of these friends had her circle of intimates
who were also pledged to strict secrecy, so everybody knew
all about it within a few days.
Browning was delighted with Will's devotion to duty. He
called him up two or three times a day, partly on matters of
business, but also to see if he was still at work.
" Keep this up," he said one day, " and your father will
give you anything you want; he is a different man here at
the office."
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That was true. The reports that his son was doing more
than his share of work so pleased old John Ganton that he
even joked with the office-boy when he came down mornings,
and as for Stenographer No. 13, when she looked tired and
sick one hot afternoon, he insisted she must take a holiday,
and gave her tickets to Lake Geneva for herself and her mother.
" Browning," he said, " the boy is all right. He can work
if he wants to, and he has a good head on him. The trouble
has been too much society; it '11 spoil any young man."
He stopped Allan Borlan on the street, and exclaimed in
a friendly manner: "Well, young man, how are you getting
on with your strike ? I guess I spoke a little roughly the
other day."
"Yes, you did, Mr. Ganton," was the firm response,
" and I felt hurt ; but I care less about that than about the
'act that you and the other packers are forcing this strike
on us just because we will not put up money."
" Well, well, Allan, you '11 live, and in time you '11 learn
it 's better to do as others do. The world was n't made in
a day, and it can't be changed in a minute. Any time you
care to come in and take your chance with the rest of us,
I '11 do what I can for you," and the burly form of the old
man disappeared up the steps of the bank.
Saturday night Will Ganton went home, and on Sunday
morning he met his father at breakfast.
" Well, young man, where have you kept yourself lately ? "
was the gruff but cordial greeting as Will entered the dining-
room.
" At the Golf Club mostly, where it 's a little cooler than
in the city," he replied.
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" When I was your age I had no chance to look about for
cool spots to sleep. The city 's cool enough for me now,
and ought to be for you." The old man had little sympathy
for the tender sensibilities of the rising generation. " The
hotter the day the faster a horse will trot, and the same 's
true of a man," he invariably said when any of his employees
complained of the heat, adding sometimes: " It 's all right to
look out for the cattle, but the men can look out for them
selves. I 've had to all my life."
" How are things at the Yards ? " he asked abruptly, with
out raising his eyes from the paper spread out on the table
before him, and at the same time munching loudly a piece of
toast, and drinking his coffee with a disagreeable sucking
noise. As far back as Will could remember his father's
breakfast had been the same — ham and eggs and coffee and
toast, with old-fashioned, black buckwheat cakes in the win
ter. Nothing roused the anger of John Ganton more than to
hear people talk of coffee and rolls in the morning, and break
fast at twelve o'clock. "That may do for a frog-eating
Frenchman, but not for an American who does a day's work
before the rest of the world is up. You might as well try
to get a head of steam by feeding a boiler with a handful of
shavings. Stoke a man as you do a furnace and you '11 get
the power; that 's my motto."
"Things are rushing. Is there anything in this talk of
a general strike ? " Will asked the question in a tone of
assumed indifference.
"Maybe there is, and maybe there is n't," his father
chuckled. " Borlan 's tied up."
" Yes, and they say we shall all be tied up by the first of
the month."
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" Well, in what shape will you be for a tie-up ?" The old
man looked up shrewdly.
" Pretty good, if we rush things for the next two weeks as
we have these last two."
"Then we don't care whether there is a strike or not.
That 's the shape to be in always," he said, bringing his big
fist down on the breakfast-table so hard that the dishes
jumped. "Never let the factory stop when the warehouse
is empty; just keep that in mind, and you won't go wrong.
We shall be ready for a tie-up in two weeks."
"But I thought you said in May, when the schedules
were signed with the unions, that there would be no strike to
amount to anything for a year."
" So I did, so I did, my boy; but conditions have changed.
The teamsters propose to break their agreement, and we want
them to. The action of Austria has affected the demand
for products so that a shut-down is necessary to keep up
prices."
" What is an agreement with the unions good for if they
break it whenever they please ? "
"Not worth the paper it is written on. What is any
agreement good for where one of the parties is an irrespon
sible and unscrupulous body, managed by a lot of rascals
ready to sell out to the first bidder? What do the unions
care for their agreements ? Not a picayune. All the agree
ment is good for is to enable the leaders, after we have paid
them their price, to keep the men in line by talking about the
sanctity of the obligation, and all that sort of stuff. Then
the papers sing the same tune, and praise the unions for
living up to their agreements. Here 's an editorial now
praising the leaders of the teamsters for trying to hold their
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men in line and make them live up to their contract with
us.
"Umph!" the old man snorted; "these leaders will go
on trying for two weeks, then they will order the men out
the day and the minute we tell 'em to, and the papers will
print a lot of twaddle about broken agreements." The
old man always read the comments of the papers on affairs
at the Yards with great interest; they amused him, — as
if the press knew anything about what was going on in the
Yards, in that strange city within a city, that city of for
eigners, of interests, of powers and combinations, of crime
and mystery, which the laws of neither State nor Nation
could reach. Out there old John Ganton was more power
ful than the mayor, or the governor, or the president; he
could do things they could not; and whenever he felt dis
posed he could and did defy the law of the land with impunity.
Every attempt to reduce the Yards to subjection, to investi
gate them, to check unlawful practices, fell by the wayside
in council chambers and legislative halls, where "influences"
were felt. So the Yards flourished like the green bay-tree,
unrestrained.
Will Ganton felt that if his father had only taken him
into his confidence a little earlier, he would not have plunged
so heavily in the market. "All I can say, father, is I wish
you had told me sooner that there might be a strike."
" Why ? " The old man looked up quickly.
" Well, you see — ' Will hesitated, for it was not easy
to tell about his speculations ; " you said there would be no
strike, so — so I went into the market a little."
" Been speculating, eh ? " This time there was no mis
taking the anger of the old man. His voice lowered itself
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almost to a growl, and the veins were turgid beneath the
cleanly shaven skin. "Been speculating, eh?" he repeated
slowly. " What have I told you ? Have n't I told you to
keep out of the market ? Men fatten off just such fools as
you are."
Will flushed at his father's harsh words. He was on
the point of making an angry retort, but he bit his tongue
and kept silent. For a moment his father glared at him.
Recovering a little from his first burst of anger, he asked
gruffly :
" How much have you lost ? "
Will gave him the figures and the amount of his indebted
ness to the bank.
" So ! And where do you expect to get the money ? " The
tone was cutting, but the flash of temper had subsided.
" I have no means of raising it, unless you will help me,
father." The accent of appeal was not lost on John Ganton,
and he relented.
"It is a good thing for the family that I have made a
little money in the market the last week or two, otherwise we
might find ourselves on the way to the poor-house. I will
make good your losses on certain conditions," he continued
sharply; " first, that you will give me your word not to specu
late again; and second, that you will give up your room at
the Golf Club, and attend steadily to business at the Yards.
Is it a bargain?"
Will was only too glad to make the promises; for the
time being he had lost all desire to get rich quick in the
market. Giving up his room at the Club came a little
harder, for it was pleasant to get away from the city and
out into the country on summer evenings and hot nights.
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A Daughter of Jem Keating
Then, too, at the Club he was able to see more of May
Keating.
Not another word was exchanged at the breakfast-table,
but when they went into the long front room — which the
architect on his plans called " the library, " and had filled with
as many bookcases as he thought the character of the room
required, — John Ganton finished his papers; he wasted
no time on news that did not directly or indirectly affect
some of his many interests. Throwing the papers on the
floor, he turned to Will and said with as much affection as he
ever displayed :
" I 've been watching the way you have attended to busi
ness the last few days. I was beginning to think there was
nothing in you, and that I could make nothing of you, but
you are doing better. All you need is less clubs and less
society to make a good business man. Some day you will
have to take my place as the head of Ganton & Co., and
I want you to be good and ready when the time comes. A
little fun at your time of life may be all right now and then, —
though I never knew what it was to drop business for pleas
ure; I got my fun out of my work, — but you can't hang
around clubs, play golf, dine out every evening, and be fit
for business. You can't do that, and I know it. I have
seen too many likely young fellows spoiled by that sort of
thing. You 've got to make your choice of either work or
play, and the mixture is weak in proportion to the amount of
play it contains. This talk about a certain amount of play
being necessary is all bosh, and it encourages the idea that
work is drudgery. I tell you the successful man finds his
pleasure in his work, and a man can't be successful unless
he takes more pleasure in his work than in anything else.
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I can't make anything of your brother," — the old man's
voice rang bitter, — " he 's no better 'n a bookworm ; but
it is in you to work if you buckle to it."
Will had never heard his father speak at such length, and
he looked at him in no little astonishment.
" One thing more, Will," the old man continued, com
pressing his lips tightly as if the subject were distasteful;
"it doesn't matter to me what girl you marry, so long as
she is honest. You will have money enough whether your
wife has any or not, and I do not propose to interfere;
but — " he paused, and the lines of his mouth were drawn
still firmer — " I hear you have been seen a good deal lately
with the Keating girls, with Mrs. John Wilton and her sister.
It probably does n't mean anything, but I warn you in time;
the less you have to do with them the better. If any son
of mine should marry a daughter of old Jem Keating, I 'd
cut him off without a cent." The old man's voice rose, and
once more the veins of his face swelled as if they would burst.
Will Ganton stood as if petrified. He had never heard his
father speak of Jem Keating, and this bitter prejudice was
a complete surprise. He had intended in due course, after
proving his diligence at the Yards, to tell his father of his
engagement. Up to that moment he had not dreamed of
objection or opposition; on the contrary, he had felt sure
his father would be only too glad to hear he wished to
marry and settle down. What should he do now ? Tell
his father? That was out of the question at the moment;
he must wait. It was some time before he could gather his
wits together, and then he said, in a low voice:
"Why, father, I did not know you were so down on Mr.
Keating. "
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A Daughter of Jem Keating
"Down on him — down on Jem Keating!" the old man
snorted, his anger rising with each word. " He 's no better
than a common thief; there 's not a drop of honest blood in
him, or any of his tribe. "
"That's rather rough on the family," Will protested.
" They are not to blame for any faults the father may have."
" It 's all the same rotten blood. The son went to the
devil long ago, and the girls will go there too in their own way.
Look at the one who married John Wilton for his money.
I 'm told she 's no better than a common —
"Stop, father! I don't think it 's exactly fair to say
such things about a woman behind her back. "
" If she were here I 'd say it to her face," the old man
bellowed ; " and I don't want you to stand up for her or any
member of the Keating family. The mother was a decent
woman, and she cried herself to death. The children are like
the father, — not a decent hair on their heads. I want you
to drop 'em; I don't want to hear of your being seen with
'em. There are plenty of women who will be mighty glad
to get you," he added grimly, " if not for your own sake, then
because you are the son of John Ganton. Just bear in
mind what I say! " and he left the room, slamming the door
behind him.
Will Ganton dropped into a chair by the open window,
hopelessly dejected. This bitter opposition was a bolt out
of the clear sky. He could not remember that he had ever
heard his father so much as mention Jem Keating's name;
but now that fact struck him as singular. Both men had
lived in Chicago nearly all their lives, and Keating had once
been prominent on the Board of Trade, though many years
before he had lost all his money. Of course his father knew
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him, and the fact that he never spoke of him showed there
must have been trouble some time or other. It all seemed
clear enough now ; but what should he do ? what could he
do ? Any day his father might hear of the engagement, —
what then? Will Ganton was afraid of his father; from
a child, so long as he could remember, he had stood in awe
of the gruff, burly, stern-featured man who said so little
except when in a violent passion, and of whom every one
stood in terror — no, not every one, for, oddly enough, his
brother John never seemed to fear their father, neither as a
child, nor later as a boy and a young man. John had once
or twice broken out in fits of anger, so violent that they
seemed to awe every one about him; but for the most part
he was silent, and apparently unmoved by things which
disturbed others. "A sulky little brat," his father said
during one of the boy's fits of temper, and left him alone.
When his mother entered the room she saw something
was the matter, and with all a mother's apprehension feared
there had been a scene between Will and his father. Hasten
ing forward, she asked nervously,
" What is the matter, Will ? "
" Nothing much." He tried to appear indifferent.
"Your father was here. I thought I heard his voice
'way up stairs. What is the matter now ? " She laid her
thin hand gently on Will's shoulder, and looked into his
face, trying to read the truth. These scenes between father
and son were not frequent, but they never occurred without
filling her heart with apprehension. She feared some day
the rupture would be open and irreparable; that her boy
might be sent to some Western city, as had been often threat
ened, where she could not look out for him and care for him.
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A Daughter of Jem Keating
Paying no attention to his mother's question, he asked
abruptly :
" Mother, was there ever any trouble between Mr. Keat
ing and father?"
" Dear me, why do you ask about that ? " She dropped
helplessly into a chair. " That was a long time ago. They
were once good friends, — dear me, how long ago it seems !
John was a baby, and Molly Keating used to come over.
What a good woman she was, — we thought everything of
her — "
"But," he interrupted, "what was the trouble between
father and Mr. Keating ? "
"Dear me," she repeated helplessly, "I don't know;
something about business. You know Mr. Keating failed
and lost all his money. They did say — but I don't know.
I was so sorry for them, they were so poor. After she died
your father would not let me have anything to do with the
family. I have never known the children since they grew
up, but they say the girls are very beautiful."
"And so they are, mother," he exclaimed enthusiastically.
" May Keating is the most beautiful girl in the world."
" Is she ? I don't know. I have not seen her since she
was a child; but of course you know all these fine people,
Will. I am glad you do, but " — her tone became appre
hensive — " I would be careful. Your father would not
like it if he heard you knew the Keating girls."
" That 's just it, mother. Why should he care ? What
have the girls done ? They are not to blame for anything
the father may have done."
"Of course, of course they arc not; but your father is
very much set against them. He vrould not let me see them
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after their mother died. I never dared disobey him, and
you — do you know them very well ? " she asked anxiously.
"Why, yes. That is," he stammered, "I have seen
quite a little of them."
"And was that what your father was angry about this
morning ? " she asked with quick intuition.
"Partly. He said some very mean things about the
family. I don't care about the father, I don't know him; but
the daughters, — that 's another thing. May Keating is the
finest girl I ever met."
"Why, Will dear, you are not in love with her, are
you ? " She looked straight into his eyes with so much
anxiety and so much affection that he could not hide the
truth.
" Yes, I am, mother. You would be in love with her too
if you knew her. Every one likes her," he continued with
the enthusiasm and exaggeration of a lover, " she is so hand
some and so clever — much cleverer than I am."
" But your father — what will your father say when he
hears of it ? " she repeated anxiously.
" I don't know. I did n't dare tell him."
"No, no; you must not tell him," she interrupted hur
riedly. "He would send you away. Perhaps you will get
over it," she added hopefully.
" I am not very apt to." He smiled at the absurdity of his
mother's suggestion. " I want you to go and see her," he
continued.
The suggestion struck terror into his mother's timid
heart; to fly in the face of her husband's absolute com
mands was something she had never done.
" Oh, I would not dare to, Will."
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A Daughter of Jem Keating
" But you must for my sake, mother. You must call on
them. Father need not know."
" He would be sure to know. He knows everything, and
even if he did n't, it would be just as wrong."
"They are not to blame. They are women, and you
liked their mother. I want you to go and see them for my
sake; I want you to know May Keating. You need not go
right away, but by-and-bye, in a week or two. I want to tell
them you are coming to call. Will you go ? "
How could she resist the appeal ? Besides, might it not
be that her husband was unjust in his prejudice ? She
folded her thin white hands helplessly in her lap.
" I want you to promise me you will go, mother. I said
you were coming to see them. I did not know there was
any trouble. They expect you."
In the end there was nothing for her to do but yield.
Mingled with her desire to please Will was a curiosity to see
the young woman he loved. In fact, she persuaded her
self that it was her duty to see and know May Keating,
even at the risk of incurring her husband's anger.
The Wiltons lived on the North Side, in one of those
extraordinary houses, so common and conspicuous, wherein
the architect attempts to embody novel features in what pur
ports to be a more or less exact copy of some good original —
to graft the nineteenth century on an earlier.
Wilton had spent a good deal of his money, and Mrs.
Jack all her ingenuity, on this house to make it one of the
"sights of the city," as Delaney irreverently put it. As a
girl, Mrs. Jack cherished the ambition to live in a house so
great that strangers would gaze at it; and she was no sooner
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married than she began to talk about building a house. The
modest rented place in which they first lived did not satisfy
her ambition at all.
"I did not marry you to live in a flat," she angrily ex
claimed once when they were discussing the matter.
" But, my dear — ' ^Yilton urged mildly, for he soon
learned to dread his wife's outbursts of temper.
"I tell you I won't live here another year," she in
terrupted, her face taking on the unpleasant expression
he had never noticed before they were married, but
which was far from infrequent after. So the house was
built; he paying the bills, she attending to all the other
details.
The result justified the expectations of Mrs. Jack's
enthusiastic admirers; the house was indeed a marvel.
J. Bosworth "Wai worth, who lived next to the Wiltons,
and whose Colonial house was an excellent example of that
delightful type, wrote a long letter to the press, complaining
that people should be permitted to erect such monuments
of ugliness on public thoroughfares ; but the letter was care
fully edited before printed, and it appeared with a picture of
J. Bosworth Walworth and his own home as a mild protest
against poor architecture in the abstract, but with a glow
ing tribute to Chicago architecture in general, and J. Bos
worth Walworth's Colonial house underlined as the finest
example of its kind in the country. Mrs. Jack thought she
saw a flattering reference to her own Venetian palace, and
smiled so sweetly on J. Bosworth when next they met, and
referred in such complimentary terms to his literary skill,
that, on the whole, he was mighty glad his letter was not
printed verbatim et literatim, and even went so far, under the
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A Daughter of Jem Keating
influence of Mrs. Jack's permeating smile, as to compliment
her on the successful outcome of her efforts.
"If my house were only half so charming as yours, Mr.
Walworth," she said modestly.
"It is a palace beside my poor hovel," he replied mag
nificently.
" How good of you to say so ! I value the opinion of any
one who writes as you do," and she gave him such a look
from her expressive eyes that J. Bosworth thanked his
lucky stars — and the discreet editor who had revised his
communication. Nevertheless there were moments when the
Venetian palace troubled him, and to his intimate friends he
said, "That style of architecture has about as much con
nection with America and American civilization as a Hindoo
pagoda, and it is as ugly and incongruous in Chicago as the
twenty-two story Masonic Temple would be in Venice."
Not content with displaying her originality and inde
pendence of tradition in the matter of Byzantine capitals
and Saracenic colonnades, Mrs. Jack, encouraged by her
complacent architect and a well-known Wabash Avenue
firm of interior decorators, chose a Louis Quinze salon, an
Elizabethan dining-room, and a library the wainscoting of
which was brought intact from an old house at The Hague.
John Wilton was relegated to a den, the hangings of which
were imported direct from Cairo, together with a smell
which no amount of smoking on his part could dissipate.
He had been made to understand he had the privileges of the
Louis Quinze salon only on state occasions, and that he was
not to take his friends into the panelled library; therefore,
when not at the club, he spent most of his time in a room in
the third story which, by some lucky chance, had been over-
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looked by the decorators. He surreptitiously installed a
billiard table and a few comfortable chairs, and spent many
an evening with equally homeless married cronies knocking
the balls about in a vain endeavor to convince themselves
they were having a good time.
"I say, Jack," one of them said one evening, "what's
the use of putting your money in a big house like this if you
have to spend your time in the attic ? "
"No use," was the laconic response.
" Then why the Old Harry did you do it ? "
" Could n't help it. . . . Your shot."
" Do you mean to say you let your wife pull you about by
the nose, like that ? "
" You have met Mrs. Jack ? "
"Yes."
" Then what 's the use discussing the matter ?
Your shot."
"Well, I'll be—"
"No doubt."
" Why don't you perk up and be a man, run things your
self?"
"You know Mrs. Jack?"
" Of course I do. "
"Then what's the use? . . . Your shot."
That was about all his friends could get out of John
Wilton. What he really thought or how he really felt no one
knew. Yet he seemed to enjoy himself in his quiet way,
playing billiards up there under the roof.
[134]
CHAPTER X
ONE SUNDAY AFfERNOON
THE day was warm, but there was a cool breeze off the
lake when Will Ganton rang the bell and was ad
mitted to the hall of the " Mosque at Cordova," as
Larry Delaney had christened the Wilton mansion, to the
secret delight of Mrs. Jack. He gave his hat and stick into
the keeping of the sleek footman, whom he recognized as a
former employee of the Club, whence he had been discharged
for pilfering. He wondered how the fellow happened to get
into the service of Mrs. Jack.
There was no one in the library, but he heard loud shouts
and childish laughter in the den beyond, where he surprised
Jack Wilton and his little boy in the midst of a fierce pillow-
fight. The covering had been pulled from the divan, the
rare rugs were in disorder, a very antique Turkish narghileh
was overturned on the floor, and at the precise moment
Harold had his father down and helpless, pelting him with
Mrs. Jack's very best pillows.
" Dere ! " he exclaimed triumphantly, " 'oo are a wobber
and 'oo are beaten; now, 'oo are dead," and he gave the
helpless and panting " wobber " a blow on the head with the
biggest pillow he could lay his little hands on. He caught
sight of Will Ganton and ran toward him, shouting:
" Look, Mithter Ganton, I 've killed the wobber."
Just then the " wobber " came to life most unexpectedly,
and fired such a volley of hot pillow shots at his small as
sailant that the latter flew to Will for refuge.
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" Help ! help ! Milliter Ganton ; the wobber 's turn to life !
Hit him!" and with that both began throwing the pillows
back with great zest. The battle raged fast and furious,
until a crash and the sound of broken glass brought the
hostilities to a sudden pause. A flying pillow had brought
down a vase valued rather in proportion to the fabulous price
paid for it than for any obvious merits.
Will Ganton looked at the fragments in dismay, for many
a time had he heard Mrs. Jack relate the marvellous history
of that vase. John Wilton looked on phlegmatically. He
never did care for that particular vase; a "fake," he once
called it, and for three days he and his wife did not speak.
" What will mamma thay ? " Little Harold was frightened,
and his small voice trembled; he stood in great awe of his
mother.
"Never you mind, Major," said his father consolingly,
as he drew the little fellow to him, "it was n't your fault; I
did it. ... No," he said, looking at Will with a twinkle
in his eye, "no, it was Mr. Ganton who threw that pillow.
Suppose you and I go upstairs, youngster, and leave him to
settle with mamma. . . . Naughty man, to throw a pillow
and break mamma's precious vase."
" Did 'oo do it ? Mamma will scold." The little fellow
looked at Will as if he were sorry for him.
" Mamma won't scold him as badly as she would you and
me, so let 's vamoose. " He grabbed up the boy and disap
peared beneath the portieres at the rear of the den before
Will could do more than call out,
" Look here, Jack, you don't mean to say -
" What does all this mean, Mr. Ganton ? WThat has
happened ? " Mrs. Jack's face could not conceal the anger
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One Sunday Afternoon
she felt when she saw the disorder. Before he could reply
she noticed the fragments of the vase; stepping forward
quickly she picked up a piece and spoke in a tone of such
fury that Will Ganton was startled. He had never before
seen her so angry. Her face took on the expression of some
vicious little animal.
"Who did that?" she demanded.
He did not wonder the other two had fled. He was glad
they were out of the room; the scene would have been
unpleasant had they remained.
" That 's some of Jack's work, — pillow fighting with
Harold down here where they know they have no business
to play. I '11 see ! " Her voice grew hard and threatening.
" I guess I threw the pillow that hit the vase, Mrs. Wilton,"
he interrupted meekly.
" Oh no, you did n't, Mr. Ganton ; you need not take the
responsibility to shield them. I 've told them often enough
not to do this sort of thing."
" Anyway, I was in it, and it 's likely I hit the vase, for I
was throwing that way."
With an effort Mrs. Jack kept her tongue between her
teeth ; she realized she was making an exhibition of herself.
" Oh, never mind ; it can't be helped," she exclaimed with
an effort to appear indifferent; "accidents will happen. . . .
Let 's go into the library."
May Keating had spent part of the morning writing a long
letter to Mrs. Jarvis Townsend. Their friendship was one
of those intimacies which often spring up on short acquaint
ance between women. Unlike in many respects, there were
so many points of contact and sympathy that they felt drawn
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to one another from the moment they met; the friendship
really began one afternoon at the Casino in Newport, when
Mrs. Townsend noticed the futility of her husband's efforts
to make an impression upon the handsome Western girl.
May Keating's delightful poise and perfect self-possession
pleased the maturer woman of the world; she had not the
slightest hesitation about inviting her to visit them ; so their
friendship ripened.
It was not often they wrote one another; Gertrude Town-
send was a poor correspondent. " Letters are so ridiculous,"
she said. "They are of no use except in the divorce court;
correspondence nowadays leads to co-respondents. The
telegraph is so much more discreet."
But now and then a woman must write — a dangerous
impulse, as every man knows. On this particular Sunday
morning May Keating felt she must talk with some one —
some one besides her sister, to whom she could not tell every
thing, so she wrote in part as follows :
"You are in Paris; that means you are in another world.
The distance between us cannot be measured in miles; you
have slipped out of my sphere, and for the time being are as
far away as if in some fairy-land beyond the clouds.
"I can see you lazily sipping your coffee in your room
mornings, half bored with the thought that the day must be
spent somehow and somewhere; that the evening must be
passed with some one, or two or more, — for if with more than
one it matters not how many. I can see you breakfasting
at — at — where ? with — with — whom ? I cannot see the
face distinctly, as the fortune-teller says, but tall and dark,
I fancy; distinguished, I am sure. Again I can see you
driving in the Bois, slowly following the grand procession of
monde et demi-monde, gazing listlessly at the same rouged
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One Sunday Afternoon
faces and chic toilettes that appear in the Grande Alice
season after season. Whence come these painted faces ?
How are their ranks recruited ? Do they never grow old ?
Do they never die ? The men one sees are seldom the same ;
they wither like leaves; they appear for a season to return
perhaps never again. But the women — ?
" I can see you dining at the Chateau Madrid in a secluded
corner, at a little table for two, — I hope the blind god is good to
you, — with the soft shades of the candles lighting up your pale,
fascinating face. You are resting your chin in your hands,
and your elbows on the table looking him — who is he ? —
direct in the eyes, as you are wont to do when the eyes are
worth searching ; while he — write me who ' he ' is — yields
like a dove to the subtle power you exercise over all men you
care to look at twice. I can almost hear the strains of the
weird Hungarian dance. Does the big fellow in the red coat
still walk to and fro among the tables, playing his violin and
leading his band of players as if in a dreamy rapture ?
"Could the ingenuity of man devise surroundings more
seductive to the weak soul of woman ? Has not some one
called Paris Hell's gateway ? If you do not want my imagi
nation to picture you as behaving worse than you are, write
and tell me what you are doing, and with whom you are
driving and dining, for I am bored to death. I must have
some excitement. I feel like doing something desperate, and
were I in Paris instead of Chicago I should be ready for any
thing the Fiend might suggest. Here the few temptations
there are present themselves in a guise so coarse that a taste
at all fastidious craves virtue by contrast; no woman who
has any respect for herself can be tempted by daylight ; gas
light is common, electricity impossible — only by the flicker
ing light of softly shaded candles, or by the pale silvery rays
of the moon, or where ten thousand stars make darkness
visible, does the Devil walk abroad in his most subtle moods.
Here they ask a woman to folly as one man invites another
to take a drink.
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" What a school of vice your Newport is! Really it is a
post-graduate course to that University of Sin, Paris. Your
women are all so clever; your men such delightful fools, with
nothing to do but wear their motley for your amusement.
I would give all I have in the world to be able to spend my
summers in Newport. But alas ! what have I to give ?
No money, some reputation, — but reputation is so soon
spent at Newport. How much virtue must a woman really
squander to be successful in your colony ? And once gone,
does the paste substitute which passes current meet all the
requirements of good society ? Tell me, that I may decide
where to go and what to do.
" A question equally serious: Shall I marry for money —
for a whole lot of money? You know I would not marry
for a few thousands, or even for a million or two — I have
too much sentiment for such a mercenary match; but every
sentiment has its price, and mine begins to yield at the pros
pect of many millions. What do you say my price should be ?
assuming the man to be neither attractive nor unattractive,
neither good nor bad, neither clever nor hopelessly stupid, — a
negligible quantity socially.
" If I had my choice, — but then, I have not, so what is the
use of speculating ? — I must marry. Shall I marry for
money, and if so for how much ? Answer me quickly for the
opportunity is here, or rather will be here for luncheon, and
I may have difficulty in staying the bans until your reply
tells me what to do."
Adding a few lines more, she folded the letter and hurried
down to luncheon.
As Wilton came into the dining-room, he greeted Will as
cordially as if they had not met before that day.
"Why, Ganton, glad to see you."
" You need n't — ' Mrs. Jack interrupted sharply, but
suppressed the angry exclamation that rose to her lips. The
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One Sunday Afternoon
look she gave her husband was, however, far from reassur
ing; but he gave Will an almost imperceptible wink as he
took his seat, as much as to say, " You see, old fellow, I am
in for it," and thereupon relapsed into his customary silence,
this time to his wife's disgust. Strive as she might, the con
versation lagged.
Will Ganton was depressed by the unpleasant interview
with his father. May Keating, \vith the uncanny intuition
of a woman, divined that something was wrong, and felt sure
the trouble affected her; the luncheon was passing in mono
syllables. Mrs. Jack at length lost patience, and exclaimed
with some irritation:
" Well, if you people won't talk, but want to eat like a lot
of dummies, you may do so."
" It is not the hour of day for talking," her sister answered.
"Then why did you ask Mr. Ganton to luncheon if you
had nothing to say ? " was the sharp and rather tactless re
joinder.
" For the pleasure of his company. It is n't necessary to
keep talking continually, is it, — Will ? " Strange, how hard
it was for her to call him by his first name.
" By no means," he answered quickly. " I should be
sorry if you treated me as company; besides," he added,
looking at Mrs. Jack with mock penitence, "I am in dis
grace."
"How — what have you been doing?" May Keating
asked, looking up in surprise.
Up to that moment the broken vase had not been men
tioned, Mrs. Jack having carefully avoided the subject.
" Well, you see," he went on apologetically, " when I came
in I found myself in the midst of an awful battle between
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Harold and a big, burly, ugly, villainous stage robber. I
immediately took a hand against the robber and threw a
pillow which ought to have killed him, but instead it hit one
of Mrs. Wilton's most precious vases, and smashed it into
smithereens. How can you expect me to talk with a load
like that on my conscience ? "
"You don't mean to say you broke that iridescent vase! "
Wilton exclaimed in a tone of exaggerated surprise, mingled
with well -feigned regret.
" It 's all right for you two men to make light of that vase,
but it was the most perfect example of its kind in America.
It came from the Dampur collection. And you broke it,"
Mrs. Jack said threateningly, turning to her husband ; " you
know you did."
" My dear, Mr. Ganton says he broke it," Wilton protested
meekly.
"No, he didn't," she snapped, "you and Harold were
playing downstairs and you both know better. I have half
a mind to punish him for his disobedience. He is old enough
to know better."
A look of pain and anxiety passed over John Wilton's
face; he feared his wife in her anger might punish the little
fellow in order to reach him, so he hastened to say:
"It was not Harold's fault, Sally; he did not want to
play." That was a fib. " I began it, and just as Will came
in I knocked the vase down."
"That sounds more like the truth," she commented
sharply.
" But it is n't," Will Ganton protested. " I took a hand
in the fight, myself, and have n't the slightest doubt I threw
the pillow that hit the vase."
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One Sunday Afternoon
"What difference does it make?" May Keating inter
rupted in a tone which expressed her weariness with the dis
cussion. " The vase was broken accidentally ; it is no one's
fault. Why not let the matter drop ? "
"But they knew better than to play," Mrs. Jack per
sisted, as if personally aggrieved.
" Suppose they did ; we all know better than to do many
things we do do," was the pointed rejoinder. "If you say
much more Jack and Mr. Ganton will replace the vase, —
these unique examples are always in the market, at a price."
When her sister spoke in this tone of scarcely veiled irony,
Mrs. Jack was always just a little afraid, so she changed the
subject.
When they were alone in the library after luncheon, May
Keating scrutinized Will Ganton closely. A delightful
breeze came through the open windows, blowing the filmy
curtains out into the room; the furniture wore its summer
covering of chintz, the pattern of which was rather loud.
"What a lovely afternoon," he said, as he stood with his
hands in his pockets, looking out of one of the windows.
"Yes," she assented shortly, knowing perfectly well his
mind was no more on the weather than it had been on the
luncheon; but she waited for him to speak. There was a
long pause, during which he fidgeted about. Withdrawing
his hands from his pockets he played with the cord to the
shade, tying it into many little slip-knots, then with a sharp
jerk undoing them.
"I say, May," he exclaimed, turning toward her, but
still standing by the open window, "my mother says she is
coming to see you and Mrs. Jack — very soon." She noticed
that he hesitated a little before he said "very soon," and she
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knew just as well as if she had been present and heard the
conversation between mother and son that some objection
had been urged, that some obstacles had arisen; that, for
some reason, Will had difficulty in persuading his mother to
make this call. She wondered what the trouble was, but
merely remarked,
" You have told her, then ? "
" Yes, — that is, I have told her that you are the loveliest
girl in the world, and that I love you." He continued to
fidget with the curtain cord. " I have not told her we are
engaged."
" Why not ? " Her tone was hard and peremptory, and he
felt confused, — why had he not told his mother the whole
truth ? He felt guilty.
"Well — you see — May," he hesitated, "of course, she
knows — she understands, so it was n't necessary* for me to
say it in so many words." He brightened up at this
thought.
"But why did you not tell your mother the truth di
rectly ? " she insisted, and her tone seemed to him still
harsher. " Is there any reason why she should not know ? "
"Why, you see, we were not going to announce it for a
time."
" Not formally, no, to avoid a lot of silly congratulations,
but you seemed very glad to tell Jack and my sister."
" Of course they ought to know."
"And most of my friends know."
"But I haven't told them — upon my honor, May, I
have not said a word to any one about it. I can't imagine
how so many have managed to find it out." He looked
mystified.
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One Sunday Afternoon
A faint smile hovered about her mouth at the earnest
ness of his protest.
"They know it, that is sufficient; the engagement is as
good as announced, and yet for some reason you do not tell
your mother. What is the reason ? "
"I tell you she does know, May; of course she under
stands."
" Does your father also know ? " she interrupted sharply.
" No — no — it would never do to tell him just now," he
exclaimed hurriedly, his voice expressing his apprehension
at the mere suggestion.
"And why not, pray? " she asked coldly.
" Why, you see, May," — how often he began his explana
tions with those same words ! they irritated her, — " father
is very peculiar. He expects me to devote all my time to
business,-— and all that sort of thing. He 's down on me for
playing the social game so much."
" So you do not dare tell him you have staked yourself in
this 'social game' and lost?" Her lips were tightly com
pressed.
" Gad, that 's about it, May," he said, relieved that she
should take this view of it. "To tell you the truth, I lost
some money in the market this last week, and when I told
him he came down on me pretty hard. He made me promise
not to speculate, to give up my room at the Golf Club, not to
go out so much, — and all that sort of thing."
"When did all this happen?" she asked, wondering if
he was telling her the whole truth.
" This morning I told him about my losses."
"And you did not dare tell him about your gains? " she
asked, with an irony he completely missed.
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"My gains?" he looked up surprised; "but I didn't
make any gains — that 's the worst of it."
" Yes ; that while you lost some money — a mere baga
telle, I dare say — you had gained a wife, a prospective
wife."
He did not know whether she was serious or making fun
of him, whether she was angry or not, and he was therefore
more than ever embarrassed.
" I did not dare, May. . . . Not yet; we must wait."
" How long ? " she asked quickly.
" Why, until — until I get into the rut out at the Yards,
and show him I mean business."
"Very well," she said, so calmly that he congratulated
himself on getting out of an awkward predieament. He
went over and sat down beside her, and attempted to take
her hand in his.
Drawing back quickly, she said, " Don't you think you
had better sit over there ? "
" What is the matter, May ? " he asked in amazement.
"Nothing, only I should feel embarrassed if any one
came in and saw you sitting beside me, and trying to hold my
hand." She drawled her words, and looked at him through
her half-closed eyes with an expression he did not like.
" Oh, nonsense. It 's perfectly absurd. They all know."
"But they do not know that you do not dare tell even
your mother — to say nothing of your father — that you are
willing to play the lover here, but not at home. These
things they do not know, and would not approve if they did ;
therefore, if you do not at once take that chair I shall be
obliged to sit there myself."
He could see that she meant what she said. Without
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One Sunday Afternoon
another word he changed his seat, feeling and looking very
foolish. At the same time he was dimly conscious she was
right; that until he had the courage to make their engage
ment known he had no right to ask favors.
They sat in silence; he hoping she would relent a little
and say something, while she looked bored.
"I have some letters to write," she remarked at last,
" and as we are to meet later at the Club for dinner, I will
ask you to excuse me. I dare say you will find Jack in his
billiard room, if you care to go up."
Without waiting for his reply she left the room. Angry
and chagrined, he had no desire to see Wilton; he stood a
few moments by the window undecided what to do. At
last, finding his hat and gloves, he hurried from the house.
He walked toward the Park, rapidly at first, more slowly as
his anger cooled.
It was so early in the afternoon that comparatively few
people were out walking; hardly any one he knew.
On reaching the Park he turned to the outer drive, follow
ing the broad concrete walk along the Lake. A host of con
fused thoughts chased through his mind.
Why had May Keating treated him so ? he kept asking
himself. Had he not done the best he could ? What dif
ference did it make whether he told his father one time or
another ? Had they not agreed not to announce the engage
ment ? . . And yet, every one seemed to know. Who
had told ? What an ugly expression Mrs. Jack had
when she was angry over the broken vase, and how sorry he
felt for John Wilton — how sorry every one seemed to feel
for John Wilton ! He was such a good fellow, so quiet, so
gentle, so meek and unassuming, and so devoted to his boy.
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Many even went so far as to say that if it were not for the
boy Mr. and Mrs. Jack would have separated long ago.
And he knew all these things, and yet he was in love with
Mrs. Jack's sister, and intended to marry her.
Could it be the two sisters were at all alike? He had
persuaded himself May Keating was different from her
sister, and had never so much as thought of her as the daugh
ter of old Jem Keating. That connection seemed altogether
casual; yet the two women were sisters, and daughters of the
one man. He could see that Mrs. Jack might be as like her
worthless father as a woman can be, and still maintain her
self in good society — was it possible that he was blind to
the shortcomings of the younger sister, or that in the eyes of
others she, too, was a daughter, physically, mentally, and
morally, of her father? The thought was so objectionable
that he rejected it as beyond the range of possibilities; but
it came back to plague him.
He seated himself on the edge of the concrete which
divides the walk from the stones that slope down to the water ;
when he sat down there was not a soul in sight. His atti
tude betrayed his dejection; as he endeavored to think he
looked out upon the lake, his eyes unconsciously following
a steamer disappearing slowly in the northwest. While
he was trying to concentrate his mind upon the problem
before him, some small voice within was pertinaciously say
ing: "I wonder if that steamer is bound for Milwaukee!
Yes; it must be. It is an excursion steamer. No." — and so
on endlessly, as if one branch of his mind were thinking of
one thing, and another entirely occupied with something
else, both clamoring for his undivided attention. And that
was always the way, — it was so hard to think, to put his
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One Sunday Afternoon
mind on one thing and keep it there, to exclude absolutely
all vagrant thoughts. The fate of himself and May Keating
became somehow inextricably mixed up with the destination
of the receding steamer: if that was really bound for Mil
waukee, then, — but if it was not . . . how utterly ridicu
lous ! Once more he looked down at the stones at his feet,
and tried to think whether the two sisters were really alike,
and whether they resembled their father. Instead of coming
to a conclusion he noticed to his surprise that his left glove
was split between the first and middle fingers. This led him
to examine the right carefully — the gloves had been pur
chased only the day before. " What rotten stuff! " he said to
himself. " I '11 take them back to-morrow," and as he put
them in his pocket, his mind returned to the all-important
subject, circling about it endlessly.
"I hear you are engaged, Mr. Ganton; permit me to
congratulate you."
He recognized the loud, clear voice at once, and turned
to find Mrs. Trelway behind him. He felt embarrassed, —
as he always did in her presence, — while a faint smile played
about her firm lips, and she looked him full in the face with
that bold, penetrating look he knew so well. Noting his
confusion, she continued :
"You do not seem very happy, sitting here alone and
gazing moodily over the lake. You look more like a jilted
lover. You — you are not thinking of jumping in, are
you?"
" Really, Mrs. Trelway — " He was about to attempt a
bit of sarcasm; but, ignoring his manner, she sat down
beside him and continued :
"After all, why not? Might not the lake be preferable
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to the sea of matrimony whereon so many risk and lose both
lives and fortunes ? Why do you marry, Mr. Ganton ? Why
does any young man with prospects in life marry ? "
She looked at him keenly, but now her tone was friendly
and her manner serious.
" For love, I suppose," he answered doubtfully. " Most
men marry for love, don't they, Mrs. Trelway P "
"In most countries, no. Why should you marry the
first woman who captivates your fancy? Why not the
second, or the third, or the tenth ? By what mark do you
recognize the divinely chosen one ? If you lived hi New
York or San Francisco, is it not certain some other appointed
one would be found at about this period of your life ? You
have arrived at the age when a man craves a woman -
usually a good many; some woman is sure to find you in
this susceptible condition, and gather you as a gardener
plucks the fruit about to fall. Why drop into the first apron
stretched beneath you ? Why not consider a prospective
alliance for life as coolly, calmly, and soberly as you would
the offer of a business partnership for a few years ? "
"Then you don't believe in love, Mrs. Trelway," he
said.
"Love, love, love!" she exclaimed impatiently. "What
do you know about love ? What do you mean by love ? A
bundle of impulses, — most of them bad. You say you love a
woman ; you think now you are in love with the one woman
destined from the beginning of time to make you happy. I
tell you the love of the unmated man is simply the natural
craving for woman, — not for a woman, but for the sex. If
you had gone to live elsewhere years ago, do you think you
would have wandered about the earth disconsolately in search
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One Sunday Afternoon
of your present divinity, or that she would have waited for
you to come from the antipodes ? "
He could not help laughing at the extravagance of her
speech.
" Perhaps not; but I am not in Europe or Asia, and here
there is but one woman."
"Oh, bosh! There are a dozen, a hundred, who would
be glad to get you; most of them for your money, possibly
some of them for yourself — women are such fools."
"But I don't want them." His tone expressed the
annoyance he felt.
"That is because you have not considered them. You
are like a small boy whose heart is set upon a pop-gun, when
everybody knows he will be just as crazy for a drum a Kttle
later. . . . Don't you like Julia Salter ? " she asked
suddenly.
" Why, yes, — a lovely young girl. I like her very much.
But why ? " he asked doubtfully.
" Well, if you were left to yourself and looked twice, you
would fall in love with her."
He laughed at the suggestion, but she continued:
"I could introduce you to a dozen girls, to say nothing
of anxious young widows, with any one of whom you would
be madly in love, — with a little clever management. You
are ripe, and you don't know it; somebody is about to pick
you, and you don't know it," she added, with some of the
coarse frankness for which she was notorious.
He did not like what she said or her manner of saying it.
Yet he did not quite know how to resent it, for he felt she
was not trying to make fun of him. On the contrary, he was
sure she thought she was giving him good advice.
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"It is none of my business, of course," she continued;
" but if I were you, if I were a young man in your position,
I would go about matrimony as I would the purchase of a
horse, and get the best I could for my money; and" - she
paused significantly — "make sure of the breed."
This time the hard, cold ring in her voice was unpleas
antly obtrusive.
"Perhaps I am stupid, but I can't look upon marriage
as I would on a horse trade, Mrs. Trelway." He meant
by his tone and words to administer a cutting rebuke.
She only laughed and looked at him with her big dark
eyes.
"Yes; you are stupid, Mr. Ganton. Most men are, but
you are stupider than the average."
"Thank you," he said, with all the resentment he could
express.
"But, like most stupid men, you are rather likable, and
really — " she paused and held out her hand - " I do wish
you well." To his surprise he found himself taking her hand
in a most friendly grasp. "If you would only adopt the
horse-trade policy it would be so much better in the end."
She turned and walked away without giving him an oppor
tunity to reply.
He was at a loss where to go; he had expected to spend
the afternoon at the Wiltons' and go with them to the club,
and now he did not care to return home. He was not in
the mood to go to one of his clubs. He even thought of
dropping out of the dinner, — if he were only sure it would
pique May Keating, he would do so. As always happens,
he had reasoned himself into the attitude of the injured
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One Sunday Afternoon
party, and so wished to have some revenge for the slight put
upon him.
In this mood he called at the Range Salters', fully intend
ing, if they invited him to dinner, to remain, — or rather
to return, for it was still early. But the Salters were all out,
— at least so the sleek-faced footman said, though the man
was probably lying. He was sure the Salters had seen him
coming up the steps, and he was quite certain he saw Mrs.
Salter's round face disappear behind the curtain of one of
the front windows. " Now that it is reported I am engaged,
they are not so anxious to see me," he thought to himself,
"that is where they make their mistake. I may not be so
much engaged after all," and he walked down the broad
steps of the Range Salter mansion feeling as if there were
eyes at every window to watch his discomfiture.
Now that he was possessed with the idea that somehow
he must find an invitation to dinner in order to show his
independence of Mrs. Jack and her entire family, he tried
the North wood Kings', where he had never called in his
life, notwithstanding several friendly and pressing invitations.
But they were out of the city, — this time he knew the foot
man was not deceiving him, for the man came to the door
in a greasy, shiny alpaca coat and with dirty collar and
cuffs ; besides, the steps were thick with dust, and the papers
of several mornings were in the corner of the vestibule where
the newsboy had thrown them.
As he crossed over to Rush Street the idea occurred to
him to go and see Delaney, whose bachelor quarters were
not far from the water works.
A neat and pretty maid said she thought Mr. Delaney
was in, — "Second floor front, if you please, sir."
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Ganton & Co.
His knock at the door was repeated before it was answered
by a loud " Come in." Entering, he found Delaney stretched
at full length on the sofa, apparently just awakened from an
afternoon nap.
"Why, Ganton, is that you?" he exclaimed, sitting up;
"where the deuce did you come from? Sit down," and he
brushed the newspapers out of an easy-chair.
Will Ganton sat down, feeling not quite at home. He
had been in Delaney's rooms only once before, one afternoon
when the latter served tea to Mrs. Jack and a few friends.
The truth was, he did not know Larry Delaney very well, —
no one did, — and it struck him that he might be intruding.
"Sony to disturb you. I didn't know you were
napping."
" Of course you did n't; how could you ? I did n't know
it myself." Delaney's manner was so cordial, Will felt more
at ease and put his hat on the table beside him and leaned
back in the comfortable reclining-chair. Delaney's room
reflected the tastes and habits of its occupant; there were
shelves filled with books that were thumbed and worn, the
walls were decorated with foils and masks and boxing-
gloves which had seen hard usage, and there were one or
two emblems which Will did not understand and which
Delaney never troubled himself to explain. It was singular
that every one took it for granted Delaney was a university
man, but no one knew his alma mater. He never talked
about himself, — perhaps because he knew that the atmos
phere of mystery made him all the more interesting.
"Thought you were lunching at the Wiltons'," he said
after a pause.
"So I was," Will Ganton answered shortly. Larry
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One Sunday Afternoon
Delaney did not fail to note the young man's manner, and
suspected a lovers' quarrel.
" It must be hotter than blazes in the sun," he remarked
casually, by way of changing the subject.
"Yes; but there is a cool breeze off the lake. I was
just up through the park, — met Mrs. Trelway. "
"Ah!" Delaney appeared indolently interested.
" She 's a queer woman," Will remarked, with emphasis
on the adjective.
" Rather an interesting woman. Don't you think so ? "
Delaney's manner was so indifferent, Will Ganton was sur
prised.
"I thought you two were great friends."
" Not great friends, just good — or bad friends, as one
looks at it. A great social philosopher would probably hold
that a man and a woman may be the best of enemies, but
never ' good ' friends. Goodness is a quality not closely
allied to friendship between the sexes."
This was too deep for Will, for what he did not know
about philosophy would fill several volumes, and what he did
know about women could be compressed within the covers
of a very small primer. Be it said to his credit, he never
pretended to a knowledge he did not possess, but if anything,
was rather too quick to admit his ignorance.
" She 's a queer talker, anyway," he remarked in a tone of
profound conviction.
" So few people nowadays say what is in their minds that
the frank expression of one's thoughts sounds queer."
"Gad, I should say so. A few more like her would
paralyze society. "
" Or galvanize it out of its moribund condition into life.
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Who knows ? Society may need a few Mrs. Trelways to
get acquainted with itself, to see its own smirking countenance
as in a mirror, and thereby learn to be and look more natural."
Delaney had dropped back on the sofa, and with his legs
drawn up and crossed was looking at the ceiling, where he
detected a cobweb in process of manufacture near the window-
casing. " Mary Jane is a good looker, but a poor duster,"
he thought to himself.
"For my part, I don't care to have my faults and failings
discussed at the dinner-table," Will Ganton answered with
the air of a man who had passed through some uncomfortable
experiences.
Delaney laughed.
"If she would pounce on you, then I might see the fun
in it," Will continued.
" We have had our moments of frankness, — I guess we
understand each other."
"If I had your gift of repartee, Larry, I would get on
better."
"Oh no, you wouldn't," Delaney interrupted; "you'd
lose half the friends you have. It is better to take things
in your good-natured way than to fight back. There is a
good deal of the Indian in women; they never forgive any
one who beats them at their own game. My position is
not unlike that of the Czar of all the Russias; I keep my
ascendancy by terrorizing, but may be blown up at any
moment."
There was a pause; Delaney knew there was something
on Will's mind besides Mrs. Trelway, but he was not a little
startled when the latter blurted out,
" I say, Larry, you know I am engaged."
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One Sunday Afternoon
"Yes — I—"
"Well, what do you think of it?"
"I congratulate you, of course," was Delaney's hearty
response.
" I do not mean that. What I want to know is, what do
you think of it ? Am I the sort of man to marry May Keat
ing ? You know them so well, tell me what you think, hon
estly."
He spoke so earnestly, so appealingly, that Delaney for a
moment hardly knew how to reply. His assurance nearly
forsook him; for a second he was on the point of saying
frankly, " No, a thousand times no, my dear fellow, you are
not!" but recovering his self-possession he tried to evade a
direct answer.
"That is for you to decide; apparently you are, or she
would not have accepted you."
"I am not so sure of that," Will muttered doubtfully;
"mighty few women marry for love, nowadays."
" More than you think," was Delaney's quiet interjection.
"To their sorrow, for the most part."
" Well, anyway, no woman is going to marry me for love,"
rejoined Will in a hopeless tone.
" Why not ? " Delaney looked at his friend in surprise,
and could scarcely repress a smile when he saw the utter
dejection expressed in the latter's countenance.
" Because — because I am the son of John Ganton, and
they think I shall inherit some of his millions. They may
get fooled on that score."
This time Delaney looked at Will more keenly as he asked :
" Why do you say that ? "
"No one will know where father's money goes until his
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will is read ; if he took it into his head to cut me off he wonld
do it in a minute."
" You have no interest in the business ? "
" Only some stock he gave me, but that has a string to it ;
I could not sell it without first offering it to him at a price
fixed. I say, Larry, do you think May Keating would care
to marry me if I were a poor man ? "
" Well, frankly speaking, my dear fellow, I do not think
she is cut out for the wife of a poor man ; or rather if I were a
poor man I would not run the risk of making two people
unhappy by marrying her. However, she is a strange girl,
with more fine qualities than her friends suspect, and she
might do anything with the man she loved."
" I guess I don't understand her very well," Will remarked
disconsolately.
"Then I would advise you to get acquainted with your
future wife before you are married. Many a man postpones
this important introduction until it is too late."
" I say, Delaney, how is it you never married ? " Will
asked his question so suddenly Delaney was quite taken by
surprise, and made no reply. He turned and looked out of
the window on the hot and dusty street, where the worn and
rotten wooden block pavement made it rough going for a
carette that was passing north : by a freak of fancy the street
changed to a broad boulevard, well paved and lined with trees,
the lumbering vehicle to a victoria, the limping horses to a
team of spirited bays, the fat and round-shouldered driver
with his battered hat to coachman and footman in spotless
livery, those within to — He looked but he could not quite
make out who were in the carette, but the features of the
woman in the victoria were familiar, very familiar indeed.
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One Sunday Afternoon
How singular he should recall this scene so vividly ; he thought
he had quite forgotten! There he was in Chicago, looking
out upon Rush Street from the second-story window of an old
red brick house, while by some subtle psychological process
the reality before his eyes was transformed to quite another
scene. As the rumbling vehicle disappeared, the victoria,
with its men in livery, and the woman whose features he so
well recalled, also vanished, and only the street with its rotten
pavement and swirls of dust remained.
" I say, Delaney — " Will Ganton repeated.
"Yes; I know," Delaney interrupted with a trace of
impatience, "you were asking why I never married. That
is a long story, too long and boresome for a hot afternoon."
" Gad, I half believe you Ve been married," Will ex
claimed, with a sudden suspicion that his friend had been
keeping it secret.
"I wish I were," Delaney responded evasively, but with
an appearance of frankness quite disarming; "for then I
should not be keeping bachelor quarters in this miserable
hole. Let 's go for a walk. I have not been out of the house
to-day."
But Will Ganton did not care to walk. He knew they
would be certain to meet some of their friends on the lake
front or in the Park, and he was not in the mood. So he left
Delaney at the door, and went down to the Club, where he
found two or three acquaintances with whom he spent the
remainder of the afternoon talking and drinking.
When May Keating went to her room she threw herself
down in a chair by the window, angry with Will Ganton and
angry with herself for being angry with him. She began to
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feel she had acted impulsively and foolishly, like a young
girl in love, like a hot-headed child, — after all, what did it
matter to her whether he told his parents at one time or
another ?
She sighed wearily and looked out of the window; she
knew she ought to go back to the library, but she did not.
She watched Will Ganton go down the steps, and she felt
that it was all a blunder on her part, and that for once she
had not played her cards well. But the truth was, the
luncheon had bored her beyond endurance. To see him sit
at the table eating as stolidly as if they were already married
and in their own house irritated her: could she stand it day
after day and year after year? For that sort of humdrum
domesticity she was not cut out. She noticed that he bolted
his glass of water in great gulps, and swallowed his claret as
if it were beer; that his hands were large and his finger nails
short and stubby, — and she wondered why she had never
before seen those short and stubby finger nails, and could not
help recalling Delaney's small but very strong hand, the
slender fingers, and perfect finger nails. Blood tells; the
blood of the butcher, of old John Ganton, versus the blood
of the — adventurer; for who knew anything about Delaney's
antecedents ?
She noticed how he grasped his fork, how firmly he held
his knife far down the blade, and how brutally he used them
both — as if they were the implements of his trade. He ate
so rapidly and so heartily; as if the luncheon, the food, the
satisfaction of hunger, were all he had come for. What
possessed her to suddenly note all these things, to his dis
advantage ? They had lunched and dined at the same table
a hundred times, and he had not struck her as essentially
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One Sunday Afternoon
different from most men ; but now — what had come over
her ? Was it the letter she had written Gertrude Townsend ?
Was it the thought of Paris with its thousand and one de
lightful places where people meet to make love under pretence
of eating ? She could not tell, but this was one of the days
when Chicago and all its people seemed to her crude beyond
endurance; when she longed to get away, somewhere, any
where, even into the country, where she would see no one.
She was subject to these moods; there were times when
life about her pressed with such exasperating familiarity that
she thought she would go wild. She had even walked beside
the Lake wondering if it would not be better to throw herself
in and end everything — at times this idea had seized her so
strongly she would draw back startled at the almost over
whelming force of the secret suggestion. What had she to
to live for ? What promise of happiness did the future hold
out ? None, absolutely none : merely marriage with a man
she did not love, for the sake of money she did not care for.
Unlike her sister, she was not dependent upon money; she
could marry a poor man for love ; she could have married —
but what was the use of thinking of that ; the dream of a sum
mer ? Unlocking a small drawer in her secretary, she took
out three or four unmounted photographs, small prints of
snap-shots made at the seashore, and as she looked at the
groups caught in holiday mood, at herself seated on the sand
beside a young man whose fine features betrayed no line of
coarseness or vulgarity, she recalled those precious hours
which sped so swiftly by — fleeting seconds never, never to be
revived, and her eyes were wet with tears. Hastily locking
the photographs in the little drawer, she threw herself upon
the couch and sobbed like a school-girl.
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Later, when Mrs. Jack found that Will Ganton had left the
house, she went to her sister's room, feeling sure there had been
a quarrel of some kind. It was only after a series of search
ing questions that she learned the truth. She looked at her
sister, and said in a tone that did not disguise her exasperation,
"May Keating, you are a fool!"
"Perhaps I am; most women are fools.'
"Here you are engaged to Will Ganton, the son of the
richest man in Chicago, and you quarrel with him because
he has not told his father quite as soon as you think the pro
prieties require. You are a fool ! " Mrs. Jack's anger was
rapidly rising.
"There is no use scolding about the matter, Sally." May
Heating's nerves were already at breaking tension. " I just
could not help it ; he irritated me so I could not stand it, and
when he as much as said he did not dare tell his father, it was
the last straw. Why should he be afraid to tell his father ?
What right would John Ganton have to raise any objection ?
Are we not as good as he is — a common — "
She was excited; her hands played nervously with the
covering of her chair. She was becoming hysterical; an
unusual thing for one ordinarily so self-possessed. Yet Mrs.
Jack had known her sister to walk the floor many a night in
the effort to quiet her overwrought nerves, and she hastened
to say soothingly:
"Never mind, dearie, it will all come right in the end.
You will see him at dinner to-night."
"I don't want to see him — I don't want to see him,"
she repeated, as she bent forward and covered her face with
her hands. "I can't marry him, Sally, — what is the use?
I can't marry him, that is all there is about it."
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One Sunday Afternoon
Dismayed at her sister's tone of desperation, Mrs. Jack
put her arm about May's neck, whispering softly :
" There, there ; don't think anything more about it now.
You don't have to marry him to-day ; there is plenty of time.
You are tired and nervous; lie down and rest a while."
After persuading her sister to take off her dress and lie
down, Mrs. Jack left the room quietly. But May Keating
did not go to sleep, and there was no use trying. Whenever
she closed her eyes all she could see was the burly figure and
round, red face of old John Ganton, with his sharp eyes, his
big nose, and thick lips. Yes; Will Ganton would look like
him in time. He would be big and burly, and his face would
take on that look of brutal animal strength; but his eyes
were not the same. They were softer and milder, and his
mouth was weak; yes, any one could see he had a weak
mouth. He must have inherited his eyes and mouth from
his mother, for there was nothing weak about his father's
face. Men feared the father, but who would fear the son ?
Who could ever stand in awe of Will Ganton ?
She found herself asking these questions, repeating them
over and over, chasing the same thoughts around in a circle
with her eyes closed until she really did doze off. Father
and son became so confused in her mind that she thought
she had promised to marry the former; and she could see
his sharp eyes looking straight at her; his thick lips laughing
ironically, as much as to say: "Well, my girl, how do you
like me for a husband ? " Oddly enough she felt no repug
nance at the thought, for there was something fascinating
about the brutal strength of the coarse features, and the power
of the man appealed to her. She felt relieved to think that
after all it was the father she was to marry, and not the son.
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. . . On a sudden the expression of the old man changed ;
his face became purple with rage, he turned upon her as if
to strike her, his eyes blazing, his big lips parted as with an
oath, and — With a cry of terror she jumped up.
She did not know John Ganton, and had never seen him
except at a distance. Was it possible that this vision of
hatred and rage was some subtle reflection from the weak
face of the son ? How could she have imagined it ? Where
could she have seen it ?
[164]
CHAPTER XI
A GLASS OF WINE
ONE Sunday afternoon, if pleasant, is very much like
another at the Park Club during the summer: the same
young men playing tennis or boating ; the same young
people sitting about on the verandas and lawn, saying, no
doubt, much the same things, — there is so little originality
about a club. Club conduct is substantially the same the
world over, — threadbare subjects and threadbare reputations,
threadbare friendships and threadbare loves, threadbare
engagements and threadbare marriages, threadbare differ
ences and threadbare divorces, — the very atmosphere ex
hausted and stale.
At each of the dozen or more tables, groups of young
people were seated, drinking different concoctions; few be
cause they were thirsty, more from habit or weak submis
sion to idiotic custom.
The tables were sloppy, and here and there pieces of lemon
peel and bent and broken straws betrayed the carelessness
of the waiters.
" How perfectly lovely the lake is to-day."
"Beautiful day."
"Chicago is a great summer resort."
" I rather guess — New York is not in it. I was down
there last week; hotter than blazes."
" Well, it was hot here last week."
" Never lasts more than three days, though."
"That 's right; the lake breeze helps out."
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Ganton & Co.
" Whose yacht is that ? "
"Axford's."
" No; I mean the one —
"Strikes me the water is pretty cold for bathing."
" Oh, they go in every Sunday afternoon."
" When the crowd is here to see them ? "
"That 's about it."
"She's the limit."
"Who is she?"
" Why, don't you know ? She 's — " The voices fell.
" You don't say so. Who brought her here ? There will
be a row if Mrs. -
" Have another drink ? "
" Seltzer lemonade for me this time, — too hot for any
thing stronger."
"High-ball."
"Waiter, three high-balls and a lemonade."
" What machine you driving now ? "
And so on, — such the stereotyped remarks, the current
coin, the small change of conversation.
"Whose boat is that ahead ? " exclaimed a young woman
in pink, pointing eagerly to the small yachts scudding along
under the fresh breeze.
"Don't know," said her companion, sucking away at the
straws in his glass. "Looks like Smithers's."
"Oh, I do hope he '11 win," the young woman in pink
exclaimed enthusiastically — and immediately forgot all
about the yacht race and Smithers's fate.
At another table they were discussing the prospects of an
engagement between two young people who had been seen
at the Club three successive Saturday afternoons.
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A Glass of Wine
" She could n't do better," was the charitable remark
of one of the young women.
" I 'm not so sure about that. She 's a stunning girl,"
replied one of the young men.
" Stunning ? Well, I can't see where that comes in," — the
young woman turned up her nose at the thought ; " if a girl
dresses loud and talks slangy you all call her stunning."
" I guess it '11 make a match all right enough," the young
fellow remarked, as he tipped back his chair and thrust his
hands into his pockets.
Some one called to one of the waiters and asked :
" Who are going to dine here this evening, do you know ? "
"I can't just say, sir; there are several parties. lean
find out, sir."
"Find out who has the corner table."
In a moment the man returned: "That is Mrs. Wilton's
table, sir."
Whereupon this particular group fell to discussing Mrs.
Jack in terms which must have made one of her ears burn
fiercely.
" I '11 bet a penny Jack is not of the party," exclaimed
one of the men, and they all laughed.
"He 's a rattling good fellow, too," said another.
" Just a trifle heavy."
"Well, I can't understand how he tolerates some things
that go on under his very nose," remarked a sharp-faced
young matron.
" They say May has landed Will Ganton at last, — they are
really engaged," said the young man who had inquired about
the table.
"Well, I don't believe it," spoke up the sharp-faced
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young matron; "he wouldn't be such a fool as to marry
her."
" Strikes me it 's the other way, — she is too deucedly
clever to marry him."
"She 'd be glad enough to get him for his money."
People came and went, — more women than men, for
many of the latter were at the country clubs playing golf.
Everybody looked up as each newcomer made his or her
appearance, and conversation at each of the small round
tables immediately shifted to the newly arrived, — which
was a large part of the amusement of the afternoon. There
was, in fact, little else to do for those who did not play tennis
or go on the water; no one ever thought of reading, thinking,
or just sitting still in the presence of the restless Lake, over
which lights and shadows in endless variety played from hour
to hour, and the surface of which reflected a thousand iri
descent hues.
It was late in the afternoon when Mrs. Jack and her sister
drove up in a victoria, with coachman and footman in spot
less and somewhat conspicuous liver}7. The two sisters were
dressed in white, but while May Keating carried a white par
asol, Mrs. Jack's was of a brilliant red.
" One can tell Mrs. Jack a mile off," said the sharp-faced
young matron.
"Rather a striking turn-out," some one remarked.
" Did you ever see such horses ? " another woman said in
an envious tone.
" Tries to be conspicuous," said another, whose one man
not only served as coachman, caring for two horses and the
stable, but also cleaned floors, rugs, and wirfflows, swept
walks, took care of the furnace, and froze the ice-cream
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A Glass of Wine
Sundays, besides attending door in a second-hand swallow-
tailed coat whenever his services were required. As most
of Mrs. Jack's acquaintances relied upon one such general
utility man, they were accordingly envious of her extrava
gance and love of display ; few had two men on the box, and
most of these dressed up their stable-boys or housemen to
serve as footmen. It was therefore impossible to tell in many
a household whether the dinner was being served by a stable-
hand, or the carriage door opened by the butler, with the
chances in favor of both alternatives.
The afternoon at the Club down town had materially
raised the spirits of Will Ganton, so that when he drove up in
a cab a little before seven, he met May Keating very much as
if nothing had occurred.
Delaney not only considered it good policy from his own
point of view to aid Mrs. Jack in making this match, but,
on the whole, he believed it a good thing for the two people
immediately concerned. Would not everybody say May
Keating had made a great catch, and that Will Ganton was
lucky to get so clever and handsome a girl ?
Leaving Will Ganton with Mrs. Jack, who was already
surrounded by a throng of gallant admirers, Delaney and May
walked slowly across the lawn to the far side of the grounds.
The tennis-courts were now deserted; the players had scat
tered, some for their homes, others to get ready for dinner.
Seating themselves on one of the benches, May leaned her
elbows on her knees, and made holes in the sod with the tip
of her parasol. For several minutes neither said a word.
Delaney watched her closely, noting the expression of weari
ness in her face, and the nervous irritation with which she
played with her parasol. At length he asked quietly:
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"Well, May, what 's up ?
Smiling bitterly she answered, "It is all up, I guess,
Larry."
"Lovers' quarrel," he commented laconically.
" It takes two to make a lovers' quarrel," she said slowly.
" When did it all happen ? "
"To-day, — after luncheon."
" Sudden squall, — soon blow over," he said encourag
ingly.
"It is n't to-day, or yesterday," she exclaimed earnestly,
" it is the to-morrow I am afraid of. It is the every day of
the years to come; the every hour of the endless weeks. At
times it seems to me as if I just could not do it." There was
a ring of despair in her voice which appealed to Delaney.
" You don't love him ? " he asked gently.
"No," she answered slowly.
" Do you dislike him ? "
"No; on the contrary I rather like him. Before there
was any question of love I liked him very much. There is
something likable about him, but nothing lovable, — you
understand what I mean."
" I think I do, and let me tell you, May," he spoke with
the assurance of knowledge, " the likable man makes a much
safer husband than the lovable. May I use myself as an
illustration ? Would you call me a likable man ? " She
shook her head, smiling. "No; for women either love or
hate me; for the most part they dislike me cordially. To
you I am companionable because — because possibly I am
more than half in love with you myself. But you would not
marry me, you would not dare take the risk ; " his lip curled
cynically. " With Will Ganton you take no risk ; you know
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A Glass of Wine
what he is. His good and bad points are plain to be seen;
you know just the kind of husband he will make, just the
sort of husband that nine-tenths of American business men
make — husbands who attend to business and find their
recreation in commercial and club life, leaving social duties
to their wives — safe sort of husbands ; dull, heavy, stupid at
dinners, impossible at afternoon teas. But they do stay at
home and manage things while their families are in Europe
or making a splurge at some resort. As a patient and long-
suffering beast of burden, the American husband has not his
equal the world over. He is the only man with whom the
clever, brilliant, ambitious American women can possibly live
on terms of peace. She is the fine fruition of social condi
tions which foster independence, originality, ambition, and
resourcefulness mixed with a certain amount of unscrupu-
lousness in the attainment of ends. The same conditions
have produced men like Will Ganton to meet her financial
requirements, and support her in careers wherein they play
obscure parts. You have taken it into your head that you
must marry for love. You are foolish. Rather than marry
for love the safer rule would be never to marry while in love.
Love is a species of insanity, a mental aberration, an over
whelming impulse to do the foolish thing. The law should
not permit people to enter into a contract so important as
that of matrimony while laboring under the illusions and
delusions of love."
May Keating could not but laugh at the extravagance of
Delaney's theories, and the sobriety with which he uttered
them. In spite, however, of their extravagance, she derived
a certain amount of consolation from what he said; for it
was undeniably true that some of her most intimate friends
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who had married for love were unhappy, while most of those
who had been influenced solely by more practical considera
tions seemed quite contented. But she could not help asking
herself if the rule held good for all classes, and her answer
was emphatically in the negative; in all but those exclusive
circles which form polite society, love is absolutely essential
to happy marriages.
"You are speaking," she said reflectively, "of the exclu
sive few — of the smart set. How about the multitude ? "
"Oh! the multitude; that is very different. The multi
tude have their own code, we have ours; if they did not
marry for the animal attraction they call love, they would
not marry at all. With us it is different. Among the reasons
which impel the society woman to marry, love is quite over
shadowed; other considerations, pro and con, are so much
more important. If love were the only consideration you
would not think of marrying at all, for just now you are not in
love; but you are compelled to consider the matter by cir
cumstances over which you have no control. You are bound
to marry soon ; you cannot help it. Knowing that, you have
surveyed the field of eligibles, and, like a shrewd, practical
young woman, have chosen a man whose prospects are bril
liant even if he is not; and, like a sensible young woman, you
are not going to let slight differences interfere with your plans.
At the appointed time you will march down the aisle to the
strains of Lohengrin, and make your vow to love, honor,
and obey the man who will love, honor, and most emphati
cally obey you."
In the depth of her being she felt sure it would all turn out
exactly as he said ; that neither she nor Will Ganton had very
much to say about it. Yet this thought, this feeling of help-
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A Glass of Wine
lessness, irritated her and stirred within her the spirit of
revolt. Why should she tamely submit, be led like a lamb
to the altar ? Why should she not rebel even to the flinging
of propriety to the winds by doing something outrageous ?
At dinner Will Ganton drank rather more champagne
than was good for him, and he did not appear to advantage.
Under the influence of the wine he became talkative, and soon
his loud voice and laughter attracted the attention of all in the
room.
" Ganton is feeling pretty good to-night," a young fellow
at one of the tables remarked to his companions, three men
about his own age.
" He looked glum enough before dinner," said one of the
others.
"May be a case of drinking to drown sorrow," the first
responded with a wink.
" Can't see what he has to feel blue about with a girl like
May Keating in love with him."
" She does n't look as if she were very much in love ; that
may be the trouble," and they all turned and looked at her.
May Keating was conscious of the looks and secret com
ments, and felt annoyed. She was so accustomed to having
people stare at her and talk about her, that ordinarily she did
not even notice it; but now to be made the subject of com
ment and conjecture because Will Ganton was acting like
a fool was intolerable.
In vain Mrs. Jack motioned the waiter to serve no more
wine; Will called for it so loudly he could not be denied.
Only the four were at the small oblong table, but unfortu
nately Delaney was at the end opposite Ganton, so he could
exercise no restraining influence, and could neither do nor
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say anything without others observing him, which would
lead to disagreeable consequences. Left to drink as he
pleased, Will Ganton invariably became more and more
boisterously good-natured; if, however, he thought any one
was trying to restrain him, it made him ugly, so ugly that
once in a restaurant he had struck a well-meaning friend full
in the face with his heavy fist, knocking him to the floor sense
less. It was not often he drank to excess ; he had not formed
the habit, and really did not care very much for champagne
or wine of any kind, but at times, when laboring under some
mental depression or from physical exhaustion, he felt a
craving for stimulants.
May Keating looked at him, her eyes and compressed lips
showing her disgust and anger; not that a man in the maud
lin stages of intoxication was a novel sight, but to have him
get drunk at their table, in the presence of a room filled with
people they knew, under the observation of women who were
enjoying her discomfiture, was an affront she could not stand.
In a voice plainly audible some distance away, she said:
" Mr. Ganton, don't you think you have had all the wine
that is good for you ? "
She did not mince matters, but put the question as point
edly and directly as she could. For a few seconds he did
not grasp the full significance of her question, but smiled
stupidly and lifted his glass as if to drink her health. When
he finally comprehended, his face became first red, then
almost purple with anger, the veins of his neck swelled, and
his thick lips parted as if to say something coarse ; he dropped
his hand, spilling the wine, and looked at her with his eyes
half shut, as if trying to concentrate all his wandering faculties
upon the object of his rage.
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Without the slightest fear, she kept her eyes fixed upon
his until she saw them waver as if to avoid hers, saw the
thick lips tremble; and instead of the outburst of fury the
others expected, he muttered something no one heard, fum
bled a moment with his napkin, struggled to his feet and
left the room.
The dining-room was silent. Even the waiters paused
in their places, feeling something extraordinary had occurred.
May Keating sat resting her chin in her left hand, nervously
playing with a spoon with her right.
Delaney was the first to break the oppressive silence,
by leaning over and whispering to Mrs. Jack:
" Let us go."
She nodded a quick assent, said something to her sister,
and they left the dining-room by the door opposite that
through which Will Ganton had just passed.
One could almost hear a great sigh of relief as they dis
appeared, and in an instant every one was talking.
" That 's the end of that little affair," said the sharp-
faced young matron, smiling with satisfaction, and her
opinion was echoed from all sides.
" They '11 be lucky if it does n't get into the papers,"
said one young fellow, glancing around. " There 's Miss
Evermore — they say she does society for the Times, and she
took it all in."
" She won't mention it for fear it would hurt the Club,
and everybody would be down on her if she did." It was
one of the board of governors who spoke, but he looked at
the keen-eyed young woman apprehensively.
The two sisters exchanged hardly a word as they drove
home. Mrs. Jack was disappointed and chagrined; May
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Keating felt humiliated. She knew that occasionally Will
Ganton drank too much, — everybody knew that, — but
she also knew from carefully veiled inquiries that he was by
no means a drunkard, and she had been led to believe his
occasional lapses were upon convivial occasions, when many
a man with a weak head drinks more than he should. She
had never heard of his becoming intoxicated at the Club;
and to think that he should have made such an exhibition of
himself while dining with her in a room filled with people,
most of whom would gloat over her sister's and her own
embarrassment! She felt the blood rush to her cheeks
from shame and indignation, felt it surge back to her heart
as she became white with anger. She could not say any
thing to her sister; what was there to say? Just as they
neared the house Mrs. Jack made a feeble attempt to excuse
Will Ganton, stammering something about " quarrel —
depressed — misunderstood," but May interrupted her
sharply.
"There is no need of discussing the matter, for there is
nothing to be said," and she went to her room and locked
the door.
Will Ganton did not go home that night, nor was he at
the Yards all the next day. Browning was anxious, and
John Ganton's face a thunder-cloud; he ordered the in
debtedness at the bank satisfied, because he knew that
sooner or later he would be obliged to pay it ; but as he gave
the necessary instructions to Browning he said gloomily:
"This is the last time, Browning, I will make good his
losses; if he gets in trouble again he may go to the devil."
The old man wheeled about in his chair and looked out
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on the street; the morning was hot, and he was in his shirt
sleeves with his vest thrown open, his collar unbuttoned and
flaring. His head dropped down into his shoulders, and for
the first time in his life Browning thought John Ganton
began to show signs of age.
A little later Browning had occasion to go into the pri
vate office, and to his astonishment the old man still sat
looking out of the window, the papers on his desk untouched ;
this was so unusual Browning could not help exclaiming:
" Mr. Ganton, don't you feel well ? "
Turning with a start, he hastily picked up the papers
before him, as if ashamed of being caught idle.
" Why yes, I 'm all right, Browning. My stomick 's a
little out of kilter, but" — and he leaned back from his desk —
"I was thinking what would become of Ganton & Co.
if anything happened to me. Who would take my place ? "
There was a pathetic ring to the old man's voice. The
great business of Ganton & Co. was his baby; he had watched
it grow from nothing; fathered it, fostered it, nursed it; it
was the offspring of his brain and his energy — the greatest
business of the kind in the whole world. Competitors had
followed in his footsteps, had even tried to win some of his
prestige, but he crushed or cowed them until all acknowl
edged his supremacy. Each year his business expanded;
like a ball of snow rolling down a steep hill, it gained in
volume as it gained momentum, until in its progress over
the face of the globe it was now so far beyond control that
it must go on and on and on, or disintegrate if brought to
a standstill.
There had been a time when he felt he was master of the
business, but now the vast organization swept him along
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as irresistibly as it carried ana provided for the thousands
upon thousands of employees. There had been a time
when he could have sold it, but that was long ago. Who
would buy Ganton & Co. now ? Who could buy ? No one
man had the means, no coterie of men would dare try to con
trol the leviathan; for the business had become a living,
breathing giant, an industrial monster his structure of
mechanical and commercial processes had started into life.
Once he might have wound up and liquidated the business
if he desired ; but that was before the business had acquired
strength and will of its own; before it had become so large
that to wind it up would spread disaster throughout the
country, even to the far ends of the earth.
The courts had referred to the great packing industries
as quasi-public corporations, as no longer so exclusively
private as to be subject to the caprice of any one man or
body of men. Legislatures had passed laws with special
reference to these great concerns, until in no less than fif
teen States Ganton & Co. maintained lobbies at each
session of every legislature, to secure favorable and prevent
unfavorable legislation.
There were times when the old man felt his impotency
in the presence of the huge industrial mass, the expansion
of which was seemingly so irresistible ; again he felt his power
and gloried in it. For while he was swept along as the captain
and crew are carried by a great ship, the organization needed
his guidance much as a ship, however huge, needs the con
trol of the captain; and it troubled him to think there was
no one to take his place when he should be compelled to
step down and out. For a time affairs would go on much
the same, the organization was so perfect, the heads of
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departments so competent; but without some one to decide
with unerring sagacity the questions that came up every
day, — questions of policy, questions of contract, questions
of immense purchases in the market, of quick sales in
distant countries, matters which could no more be debated
than emergencies on a field of battle, — what would become
of the great business ? If Will should turn out a failure, to
whom could he look ?
Tuesday May Keating received a penitent and remorse
ful letter from Will Ganton. The letter came just as she
was dressing to go for a drive; she read it, tossed it to one
side, gave one of her gloves so vicious a pull it ripped; with
an exclamation of impatience, she picked up the letter and
re-read it. For some moments she stood in front of her
dressing-table, so absorbed in thought that, as her eyes rose
and she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, it startled
her as if she had seen a stranger before her; she noted the
look of irritation and indecision on her own face, and she was
curiously interested. She wondered if the young woman
in the mirror, the young woman in hat and street costume,
with brown hair and dark eyes, would listen to the appeal in
the letter. No, she did not think the woman in the mirror
would ; she did not look as if she would, for the lines about
her mouth were just a little hard, and there was an expression
in her eyes she did not quite like. This woman looked as if
she could be merciless and cruel when she chose, and she was
worldly, that was certain. Why, then, did she hold that
open letter in her hand as if undecided what to do ? Why
did she pick it up and read it a second time?
How long she might have stood there lost in thought it
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is impossible to say, for at that moment Mrs. Jack opened
the door, saying:
" Come, May, are n't you ready ? "
"Yes; in a second. I ripped a glove. There 's a letter
from Will Ganton," she added carelessly.
" Well, I should say it 's time he attempted some sort of
an explanation," Mrs. Jack exclaimed, as she eagerly seized
the letter and proceeded to read it. When finished she
looked up with the remark:
"Not bad. You were pretty hard on him. He is peni
tent enough, that 's certain. . . . What are you going
to do about it ? " She looked at her sister anxiously.
"I don't know. Nothing, I guess," was the uncertain
response.
"You will have to answer it."
" Why ? " There was a marked accent of irritation. " I
can let the matter drop as it is, can't I ? "
" Of course, of course you can, dearie; but I think a letter
like that deserves an answer. It is not a crime to get drunk,"
Mrs. Jack continued apologetically.
" It is worse than a crime to get drunk when dining in
public with ladies. It reduces them to the level of —
she hesitated, and her sister hastened to interpose.
"Of course there is no excuse. It was outrageous, and
I intend to give him a piece of my mind at the first oppor
tunity; but I think you ought to write him and tell him
that — that — "
" What ? " asked her sister calmly. Mrs. Jack did not
know what she would tell him, or rather, she knew very
well that she would tell him to come back and all would be
forgiven; and that that was what she wanted her sister to
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write, only she did not dare say it in so many words. But
May knew perfectly well what was passing in Mrs. Jack's
not very subtle mind; she knew that ever since the dinner
her sister had been hoping something might be done to heal
the breach. She had set her heart on this match, and did
not propose to be balked.
" Well, let us go. I am ready," May suddenly exclaimed,
as she quickly buttoned her glove.
Mrs. Jack hesitated. " Are n't you going to answer the
letter?"
" No, not now. There will be time enough later. Let
us go."
There was something in the tone which made Mrs.
Jack feel as if the victory were won. She knew that the
woman who debates always answers.
Half-way up the outer drive they saw Delaney walking
with Mrs. Trelway.
" I don't like that woman," Mrs. Jack exclaimed in a tone
of annoyance.
"Who? Oh, Carrie Trelway," said her sister, looking
up and catching sight of the two on the walk.
" Horribly vulgar," continued Mrs. Jack, and her round
face expressed her disgust
"Because she is walking with Larry Delaney?" was the
rather cutting rejoinder.
"No; of course not. What a mean thing to say, May.
She says such disagreeable and indecent things, I can't see
how people tolerate her."
When the victoria drew up alongside the curb so she
might speak to them, Mrs. Jack's face was wreathed in the
blandest of smiles.
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" I 'm so glad to see you, Mrs. Trelway."
" You did not look so pleased a moment ago," was the
blunt rejoinder. Mrs. Trelway looked at Mrs. Jack boldly
and laughed at her confusion. "Heard all about the time
you had at the Club Sunday night, May," she continued,
turning suddenly to May Keating, who was leaning back
with an air of bored indifference ; " sorry I was not there to
help you take care of the young man."
"Yes; your experience would have been helpful." Every
one knew Billy Trelway's many weaknesses.
"Oh, Billy is the best fellow in the world when he is
drunk. You can do anything with him," was the perfectly
frank rejoinder. No one could feaze Mrs. Trelway by refer
ences to the shortcomings of either her husband or herself;
her self-possession being of that adamantine character which
defies attack. " I suppose," she continued lightly, " Will and
Billy are a good deal alike, more interesting drunk than
sober."
Delaney listened with an amused expression, which added
to Mrs. Jack's irritation. She was furious, and all the more
so because she could think of nothing to say that could
disturb the equanimity of Mrs. Trelway. Apparently May
Keating was quite indifferent, for she sat there with the
same bored expression. Delaney admired her self-possession,
and said to himself, "By Jove! but you are a great girl."
As the victoria drove on, Mrs. Trelway turned to him
and, as if divining his thoughts, said :
" You are right, Larry, she is a stunning girl, — but no
wife for Will Ganton."
" Why ? " he asked, curious to know her reasons for the
conviction so positively expressed.
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"Because they would both go to the devil if married,"
she answered positively
" I don't see that," he remarked slowly.
" Of course you don't, — no man would see it, — but
they are no more fitted for one another than oil and water,
— they won't mix. He is not a bad fellow in his way,
rather likable; and I wish him better luck than to marry
May Keating."
" Are n't you rather down on her ? " he protested.
" Not at all ; she is a stunning girl — that is just the word
for her — stunning, and she ought to marry a man like
you. Why don't you marry her, Larry?" She brought
her heavy eyebrows even nearer together, and gave Delaney
so searching a look that he dropped his eyes in some con
fusion.
"I — " he stammered, "why, I have no intention of
marrying. I cannot afford to — besides," he continued,
recovering his equanimity, " she would not have me."
" She might be wise there ; nevertheless, she needs a hus
band with some of your brilliant and unscrupulous char
acteristics."
"Thanks," he said, nettled. There were times when
Mrs. Trelway was too outspoken to suit even him. What
could she mean by " unscrupulous characteristics " ? Nor
did he feel much more at ease when she continued, coolly:
" Oh, that is nothing. We all have our unscrupulous
sides, and some of us have more than one. You, I take it,
are especially favored, since most clever men are. We are
all criminals more or less veneered, and it is the lawless ele
ment in us that makes life worth living, — worth living to
those who indulge it, better worth living to those who con-
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quer it; but inane and insipid to those who so far obliterate
it that they no longer feel the contest between the evil and
the good."
"You believe, then, in the virtue of sin?" he suggested.
" Yes ; for how can there be any virtue without sin ? Are
they not relative terms? The one is simply the contrast
which makes the other perceptible."
"All of which is interesting; but how would you apply
these general observations to Will Ganton and myself, the
two cases under discussion ? "
"Will Ganton needs a wife of good common sense,
domestic tastes, stubborn and phlegmatic disposition. You
follow bad impulses from choice, and even cultivate them to
secure more exquisite enjoyment. The woman who married
you to reform you would waste her life; what you need is a
wife who will not mourn over your follies, but match them
with her own, and so live with you on terms of perfect under
standing and more or less accord."
" And you think May Keating that sort of a woman ? "
Mrs. Trelway's direct manner of putting things interested
him ; she certainly saw the people about her very clearly.
" She is just the wife for a man like you, — only the man
who marries her must have money."
" That bars me," he interrupted, smiling grimly.
"Oh, you are clever enough to make money, Larry
Delaney." She looked at him sharply.
"I have been trying a long time, and so far have only
enough to keep the wolf from the door."
"You may not be trying in the right way. The trouble
with you is that you try to do everything by your wits ; you
are too clever for your own good."
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She did not know how near her random shots came to the
bull's-eye, but he hastened to change the subject; he had no
desire to discuss his personal affairs with a woman so keen.
He knew he had his enemies, and that some of them did not
hesitate to say very sharp things about him and his business
methods. Billy Trelway himself was one of those who had
lost considerable sums trading through him, but whether
Billy had ever questioned the regularity of the transactions
he did not know. But it was more than likely that Mrs.
Trelway knew of the losses and probably of the rumors,
since she knew everything that was worth knowing and much
that was not. At one time she was in the habit of asking
him to invest a little money for her in the market ; and while
her investments had been successful in nearly every instance,
she suddenly stopped speculating through him, though he
was certain she still did so occasionally through others.
Every successful speculator is annoyed by these social
customers. Some Larry Delaney could not refuse without
offending, and there were others whom he wished under
obligations to him; but though it had cost him several
thousands of dollars to carry these clients and protect them
from losses, the money he thought well spent in most in
stances, and not altogether wasted in any.
He could even point out the jewels, the hats, the gowns,
his money had bought; for women invariably put their
winnings into some particular thing they want, and exhibit
the purchase to friends as the result of their sagacity.
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CHAPTER XII
AN ANONYMOUS LETTER
WHEN John Wilton came home about five o'clock that
afternoon, he looked over the mail on the hall table,
picked out his own letters, and went upstairs to the
nursery. It was his habit as soon as he entered the house to
hunt up his boy; many days that was about all he came home
for, just to see the little fellow and have a romp with him.
They were great chums.
As he opened the door he heard an indignant little voice
shouting :
" 'Oo told a lie, — I hate 'oo — I hate 'oo, — I won't
speak wiv 'oo. Go away — go away," and he saw Harold
struggling with the French governess, a young woman he did
not like. The moment the little fellow caught sight of his
father he tore himself away and rushed into Wilton's arms;
all his rage welled into tears, and he sobbed as if his little
heart would break.
" What 's the matter, Major? What has happened?"
The governess began a confused explanation in broken
English, that the boy would not speak to her in French;
"and Monsieur, he know, eet ees Madame's wish zat he
spik French all ze time wiz me."
" She told a lie — she told a lie. I won't speak wiv her! "
the little fellow cried out between his sobs.
Wilton looked at her. For just a second her eyes dropped,
but she looked up brazenly and said nothing.
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An Anonymous Letter
"What does he mean by saying you told a lie?" he
finally asked.
Shrugging her shoulders, she replied indifferently, "Je
ne sais pas."
' 'Oo do know — 'oo do know. 'Oo know 'oo told a lie/'
shouted the boy, hugging his father tightly about the neck,
but at the same time looking fearlessly at the governess.
Her face assumed a hard and ugly look.
" You may go," said Wilton quietly, " I will inquire into
the matter."
"I prefare to stay, eef he ees to say zings about me," she
said stubbornly.
"You may go," he repeated, and this time so sternly she
turned and left the room; but as she did so he heard her
mutter something about " Madame." He knew from past
scenes that Mrs. Jack would take the part of the French
woman against Harold and himself. Time and again he had
tried to get rid of her, but her influence over his wife seemed
something unaccountable. He hated to have his boy with
her; but when he expostulated with Mrs. Jack she sharply
asked, " Why ? " and because he could give no very definite
reasons, said impatiently, "Just one of your prejudices.
You don't like her because she is French. Well, the child
must have a French governess, and that is all there is to it."
He could not see why they should take into their home a
young woman whose antecedents were not only unknown,
but apparently wrapped in mystery, whose account of her
own life and the reasons why she came to America were so
vague and conflicting as to challenge suspicion, and whose
conduct while in their service had not been above criticism.
He once said gently, "You would not employ a cook or
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maid without some sort of recommendation, — without know
ing where she had worked; is it not just as important to
know something about the girl who is to live in the same
room with our boy ? "
But it did no good: Mrs. Jack was bound to have a
French governess ; it was the thing to do, and that was suffi
cient.
From the moment the strange girl entered the house,
Harold hated her. That pleased his father, but it brought
the little fellow many a sharp vord from his mother. As
for the governess, she paid no attention to the child's aversion,
but steadily ingratiated herself with Mrs. Jack until she felt
she was an indispensable factor in the household.
When the girl was out of the room, Wilton said soothingly:
"Tell papa all about it, Major," using his pet name, as
"Harold" seemed too ponderous for such a little shaver,
" Harry " too slangy, but " Major " just expressed him.
" What did she say ? "
" She told a lie. She said mamma did n't love 'oo, and zen
she laughed."
Wilton felt something tighten about his heart at hearing
this from his own child. He pulled nervously at his mus
tache and looked at the boy, wondering if he understood the
significance of what he was saying; but all he saw were the
big blue eyes, still filled with tears, looking frankly into
his own, and he knew no suspicion of the truth had entered
the little curly head.
"I guess she was fooling," he said slowly; "she did n't
mean it."
"Oh, 'ess she did, for she said mamma loved some one
else better zan she loved 'oo." In his anger and excitement
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the sounds of " th " and " y " were too much for his little
tongue.
Wilton's face flushed with shame and anger, to think the
woman had put such notions into the head of his boy, his
baby; he knew she had done it spitefully to wound him.
Perhaps she had not counted on the little fellow's resentment,
but probably thought he would repeat what she said as a
careless remark which she could deny if called to task.
For a moment he thought of hunting her up and ordering
her from the house instantly, but felt that would not do.
It would create a scene, and only make bad matters worse, —
in fact, it was altogether likely she would refuse to go at his
command, but coolly say she had been engaged by Madame.
Besides, what reason could he give for her sudden dismissal ?
He could not say she had said his wife loved another better
than him ; it would sound too ridiculous.
Before these conflicting considerations one resolution
after another faded away, and he sat there so silent and
gloomy that little Harold was afraid to utter a word ; he had
never before seen his father's face look like that.
" She must go, and go at once," he kept repeating to him
self, as if by repetition he strengthened his determination
and made her dismissal sure. "I will speak to Sally as
soon as she comes in, and she must get her out of the house
to-day, — yes, to-day. She shall not see the boy again."
The thought that she would ever again speak to Harold
caused the blood to rush to his face, and he pulled his mous
tache viciously.
" Wat 's ze matter, papa ? " was the timid inquiry. " 'Oo
look sick."
" Nothing — nothing much, Major. Papa is not sick."
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The little fellow brightened up and exclaimed, confidently,
" It was a lie, was n't it, papa ? "
That cut, and it cut deep. " Of course, Major; she should
not say such things. No one should say such things,"
he hesitated, — " whether true or false."
"I don't like her, papa. I hate her."
"Mustn't say that, Major. Hate is a naughty word.
You don't hate any one."
' 'Ess I do. I hate her; I don't hate any one else, not
even ze boy who frew stones at Buzzer. Won't 'oo send her
away, papa ?"
" Yes, dear, she shall go. Where is mamma ? "
" Mamma 's out d wiving wiv Aunty May. 'Oo send her
away before mamma turns back/' He felt instinctively
that his mother would not discharge the governess, no matter
what she had done.
"Can't do that, darling. Mamma would not like it;
but don't you be afraid, she shall go."
Still holding the little fellow on his knee, WTilton in an
absent-minded manner began opening his letters. He knew
they were of no importance, mostly bills, receipts, adver
tisements, and he scarcely glanced at them, until suddenly
his attention was arrested by one which contained simply a
sheet of plain note-paper, on which were pasted letters cut
from a newspaper, which read :
" JOHN WILTON, ESQ. — If you will watch your wife and
Lawrence Delaney a little more closely you will discover
things that will interest you. A FRIEND."
It was an anonymous letter, — the most contemptible and
cowardly of all attacks. John Wilton detested such things,
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and had always said they should be burned and forgotten
immediately. He knew there were seasons when they were
epidemic, like typhoid, diphtheria, and other infectious and
contagious diseases ; that frequently neighborhoods were per
secuted, and not only men and women, but even young girls
just out in society, were made the victims of some malicious
or disordered brain. In rare instances the writers were
exposed and prosecuted; more often they were suspected
and shunned. John Wilton had always felt sure that if
he ever received such a communication, he would tear it up
without giving it a thought. Now, face to face with the
literal fact, the thing seemed different; possibly because it
came with cumulative force upon what the governess had
said only a few moments before. It caught him in a moment
of depression, when he was off his guard, and the shaft went
home.
"What a funny letter, papa," Harold exclaimed, looking
with childish curiosity at the sheet of note paper, with its
printed letters awkwardly pasted together.
Hastily folding the letter, Wilton put it in his pocket;
it was so contaminating he was sorry the child had seen it.
" It is nothing, Major. Some one pasted those letters on
the paper for — fun, I guess."
" I 'm doin ' to write a letter like zat to mamma. Where 's
ze mooslage ? " He jumped down, and ran as fast as his
little legs would carry him to the desk in the corner where he
kept his writing materials, his paper and pencils, — he was
not allowed ink, — and a bottle of very gummy " mooslage,"
which he kept for mending dolls, and " tickin fings togedder "
generally.
Wilton knew there was no use trying to divert him. The
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novelty of the letter had completely taken his childish fancy,
and he would not rest until he had written one like it to every
one in the house. He was a great letter- writer ; but of late
making scrawls on papers, sealing them up and giving them
to the postman, who good-naturedly handed them in with
the regular mail, had lost its charm. Now this new way of
writing aroused his flagging enthusiasm, and he would begin
all over.
" I s'all wite Aunty May, and mamma, and — oh, 'ess,
I s'all wite Mister Delaney a dood long letter, and tell him to
bwing me anuzzer box of tandy wight away. "
"No, no," Wilton exclaimed earnestly; "no, Major, you
must not write Mr. Delaney that sort of a letter."
" W'y not, papa ? " he looked up, his big blue eyes wide
open in amazement that his father should not want him to
write to Mr. Delaney. He always wrote him letters, and
always got whatever he wrote for, the two were such good
friends.
"Papa does not want you to write Mr. Delaney any
more." Wilton spoke so quietly and so sadly that the little
fellow looked at him wonderingly. " Write me the letter and
I will bring you the candy," he continued, in the effort to
divert the set purpose of the determined little mind.
"Will 'oo bwing ze same kind as ze last box?" was the
doubtful and somewhat suspicious inquiry.
" Yes, of course. What was the last box ? "
"Toklate solders wiv wed and w'ite tandies for flags."
" That 's all right, Major, we'll have the chocolate sol
diers and the red and white candies to-morrow. You need
not write me the letter."
"Oh, 'ess, I must."
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"Well, remember, don't write any letter to Mr. Delaney
— ever again. Write me for whatever you want."
Wilton was surprised to find himself wondering where he
could find such extraordinary candies. He did not remem
ber having ever seen chocolate soldiers with red and white
flags, but he would visit every confectioner's in the city if
necessary. Suppose Delaney had bought them in New
York — it was quite likely, for he was fond of giving novelties
— what then ? These thoughts were running through his
brain as freely as if his mind were not wholly occupied by
more serious matters. What should he do about the gover
ness and the letter ? Those were the real problems, and not
the whereabouts of the chocolate soldiers and the red and
white candies ; yet the latter obtruded itself whenever he was
about to come to a decision regarding the more important
matter.
WTien Mrs. Jack returned, Wilton went at once to her
room, closed the door carefully behind him, and said in a
constrained voice,
" I want to have a little talk with you, Sally."
His manner was so unusual, and his tone so unfamiliar,
that she turned and looked at him in surprise. The time
was not favorable for a talk. Mrs. Jack was decidedly out
of sorts; meeting Mrs. Trelway had quite upset her; but
John Wilton did not know all this, and did not even raise his
eyes to look at her when she asked irritably,
" Well, what is it now ? "
He had seated himself and was looking at the curled-up
corner of the rug. He tried to turn it back with the toe of
his shoe, but it would not stay flat. He knew his wife was
standing there glaring at him angrily. It was what she
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always did when he attempted to remonstrate with her, but
he did not care, now that the time had come for him to speak
plainly, — if the corner of that rug would only stay down, he
could go on.
" When you get through fussing with that rug I hope you
will say something, or — "
That was all that was necessary to recall him to himself.
Looking straight at her, he said quickly,
" The governess must go. "
"Indeed, what is the matter now?"
Without heeding the tone of a question meant to belittle
him, he continued,
"She must go, to-day."
The repetition grated upon her. Her round, pretty face
flushed with anger, and with her eyes half shut she took sev
eral steps toward him, almost screaming:
" Why must she go to-day ? WThat has she done ? What
have you to say about it, anyway? I tell you she
sha'n't go to-day or any other day, and I don't want you
to meddle. "
" She has been talking to Harold, " he went on quietly.
" That is what she is hired for, is n't it ? "
" She has said things no decent girl would say to a child."
He spoke more firmly now, and his wife began to wonder
what had happened.
" What has she said ? " she asked more soberly.
"I do not like to repeat her words, but — " he hesitated,
" I suppose there is no other way. She told Harold you did
not love me, and that you loved some one else better. It is
not that I care about myself, Sally, but to think any girl could
be so low as to talk that way to a child ! "
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The blood left Mrs. Jack's face, and she felt herself be
come suddenly pale. For the first time in her married life she
felt afraid, — afraid of her husband, afraid of her servants,
afraid of herself. The feeling of fear which for the moment
overwhelmed her little soul was sickening, and she grew faint.
Could it be possible that people really talked about her, that
they really knew, that her own servants knew? She had
been reckless and imprudent; she had done so many things
other women would not do that her own sister had often
remonstrated with her, but all this was part of her theory of
life. Every woman who amounted to anything had some
man at her heels, a social substitute for her husband, and
she believed the two should be linked together by a certain
amount of gossip ; that people should speak of them as " good
friends" and inseparable. Beyond that she did not want
people to go, realizing that those who endeavored to maintain
their social footing on the dizzy pinnacle of notoriety were
in danger of bad falls. She desired the notoriety and the
doubtful status it gave her without disastrous consequences;
and lived in that atmosphere of blind confidence which
always surrounds the social transgressor.
Like many a woman with her head in the sand, she believed
herself completely hidden from curious observation, and she
did not know either what people were saying or how much
they really knew. What the governess had said was the first
intimation that people were saying ugly things. If her own
servants talked so openly, then the matter was serious ; for a
servant's lie is commonly accepted as the truth.
Mrs. Jack dropped into a chair and sat silent after her
husband's last words. He waited for her to speak. Of
course she must make light of the matter in some way, as it
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was the only thing she could do; but her voice sounded
forced and artificial as she said :
" She did not mean it. It is ridiculous. But if she said
such an absurd thing, we will discharge her. Harold might
have misunderstood her."
" She tried to lie out of it; I was there."
"I — I will send for her at once."
"One thing more, since we are on this subject." John
Wilton spoke slowly and with an effort. No one knew how
hard it was for him to talk of anything like this. He seemed
to feel as if he had no right to do so, as if his wife might sus
pect some selfish motive, a desire to claim her affection against
her will. "I received this letter this afternoon. I would
have destroyed it immediately if it had not been for what that
governess said to Harold; but if people are talking I think
you ought to know, for your own sake — and Harold's."
He handed her the sheet of notepaper with its irregularly
pasted letters. She read the words slowly, but instead of
being more terrified, by a sudden revulsion of feeling she be
came furious, — furious to think he would pay any attention
to an anonymous letter, furious to think she should be
made the subject of that sort of an attack. Jumping up, she
shook the letter in his face, screaming : " How dare you show
me this nasty, miserable letter ? How dare you ? There ! —
there ! — there ! " and she tore the sheet of paper into a
hundred pieces and threw them in his face, stamping her
foot with rage as she did so.
Wilton was always afraid of his wife when in one of her
fits of temper; he felt she might do anything, for she was
like a mad beast. Once she had thrown a paper-weight
which just missed hitting him, and crashed into the wall at
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his back ; and more than once she had smashed things in fits
of ungovernable rage. These moods were usually followed
by a flood of tears, and now he waited silently for the reac
tion; to say a word would, he knew, merely add fuel to the
already white-hot flame.
For a moment she stood glaring at him, then her features
became convulsed, and with a sob she threw herself on the
bed, crying hysterically.
Wilton left the room.
When Mrs. Jack came to herself so she could think,
she knew she must do something about the governess, but
what could she say to her ? WTiat reason could she give for
discharging her? She could not tell her it was on account
of what she had said to Harold; that was something she
could not discuss with the girl, — but what could she say ?
Perhaps there would be no need of giving any reason. The
girl might want to go. Doubtless she did, for otherwise
she would not have acted so. That seemed so plausible
that she felt more at ease. She hastily picked up the pieces
of the letter from the floor, and rang for the governess, all
the time trying to reassure herself by mentally repeating,
" Of course the girl knew nothing ; of course not ; how absurd !
Nothing escaped the keen eyes of the governess as she
entered the room as stealthily as a cat. She knew there had
been a scene between husband and wife, and she was sure
she had been the cause of it. Yet no one could have told
from her expression that she noticed anything at all unusual ;
her self-possession was perfect.
Without turning from the dressing-table where she sought
to appear as if rearranging her hair, Mrs. Jack said abruptly:
"Mademoiselle, I am sorry, but we shall have to make
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a change. I shall not need your services any longer. I
will pay you a month ahead. "
Without betraying the slightest emotion, the young woman
asked in her broken English:
"Pardon, Madame, but may I ask why I am deesmis' ? "
" Certainly. We — that is, Mr. Wilton and I — think
Harold does not need a French governess just now. "
Mrs. Jack was so confused that she could see her own con
fusion in the mirror, and was glad it stood at such an angle
that the governess could not see her.
"I am surprise' Madame deed not know zis morning."
She was so exasperatingly cool and collected that it irritated
Mrs. Jack.
" I talked with Mr. Wilton this afternoon. It is sufficient
that we have decided."
" Perhaps Monsieur haf tol' Madame — somezing ? "
The accent on the " somezing " was disagreeably significant.
"Yes; he did tell me something," was the sharp retort.
Mrs. Jack forgot herself, but paused in time; she did not
care to go into that matter.
The governess waited without moving, but there was a
hard look about her eyes.
" Somezing I said to — " she said interrogatively, but Mrs.
Jack interrupted her sharply :
"There is no need of discussing the matter, Mademoi
selle."
" But eef ze ladies ask me why I go, how s'all I say ? "
" I don't care what you say," Mrs. Jack answered irritably,
her nerves giving away under the continued stress.
"Ver' well, Madame." The response came slowly, as
if the girl were trying to find words to express herself to the
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point. "I can tell ze ladies I was deesmis' because I haf
seen Madame and Monsieur Delaney togedder so ver' often,
and zat I know — "
"Stop!" Mrs. Jack was panic-stricken at the change
that came over the face she saw in the mirror. Was it pos
sible those pale and terror-stricken features belonged to her ?
Why did she look so guilty ? She did not dare turn around
and face the girl for fear she, too, would see.
" Stop! " she repeated, with an effort at indignation ; " not
another word. So this is the return you make for all I have
done for you."
"It ees Madame who sen' me away. I like to stay wiz
Madame, but eef I go I mus' tell w'at I haf see'." The
tone was humble, and yet the threat so plain that Mrs. Jack
understood perfectly: the price of her silence was an easy
position; if discharged she would make trouble.
" Go to your room. I will consider the matter. Perhaps
Mr. Wilton will — but go! go! go!" She could stand the
strain no longer, and her voice rose almost to a shriek. The
girl knew she had won, and with a soft, " Merci, Madame,"
glided out of the room, closing the door carefully behind her.
During the entire interview Mrs. Jack had not turned
from where she stood before her dressing-table, her hand
mechanically attempting to arrange her disordered hair; but
she no sooner heard the door close than she whirled about
and walked back and forth like a caged beast seeking a
possible place of escape. " What shall I do ? What shall I
do ? " she kept repeating monotonously. Then she tried to
reassure herself by arguing :
" She knows nothing. She can't know anything. There
is nothing for her to know. It is all absurd. Why should
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I be afraid ? " But another voice whispered : " She would
talk, and people would believe her. People always believe
anything against a woman. Besides, there is the letter, that
anonymous letter. Who could have sent it ? Some jealous
woman ? " She ran over in her mind all her acquaint
ances, and all Delaney's so far as she knew them. It might
be this one, or that one, or the other one, — yes, it might be
any one of half a dozen women she could think of, not one of
whom would hesitate to do a mean and malicious thing to
make her uncomfortable, if there was no chance of exposure.
Still the trouble was with the governess, not the letter: why
should she care who sent that contemptible note ? Any
woman might be made the victim of that sort of an attack;
no one would pay much attention to an anonymous letter.
But the governess, — what could she do about her ? She
did not dare discharge her. Even if she had said things to
Harold she ought not to have said, she would not do that
again. No, she would not discharge her at present, but she
would find a way to get rid of her without incurring her
ill-will. Mrs. Jack persuaded herself such a course was
feasible, and she felt easier.
When her husband came into her room just before dinner
and asked her what she had done, she was more composed,
and explained it was not possible to send the governess off
without some notice; that such a course would cast such a
reflection upon the girl she would not be able to get another
place.
"But I will pay her a month or two ahead, and her
expenses to New York, — anything to get her out of the city,"
exclaimed Wilton.
"That would hardly do. Every one would know she
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An Anonymous Letter
was discharged for some reason. Besides, she would talk.
Leave it to me and I will manage it somehow."
"I told Harold she should go to-day," Wilton said, as
if keeping his word to the boy was of more importance than
anything else.
" Well, you should n't have told him anything of the kind,"
his wife retorted impatiently; "it is none of his business."
Wilton thought it concerned the little fellow more than
any one in the house, but he knew from his wife's tone there
was no use saying anything more. Moreover, he felt that
possibly it would be wiser to get rid of the girl without a
scene. To discharge her because she said his wife did not
love him would set every one laughing, and saying the girl
had simply told the truth. The resolution so firmly taken in
the nursery seemed to melt away before these various con
siderations; he would have to explain to Harold that every
thing would be arranged by and by. Meanwhile the little
fellow should not be with the governess, — that much he
would insist upon.
Nothing more was said about the letter. His wife did
not mention it, and he did not care to occasion another
scene by referring to it, though he did go so far as to suggest
in a mild and deferential tone :
" Would it not be wise, Sally, — on Harold's account, I
mean, — to see less of Delaney ? He 's a good fellow, I
know," he hastened to add, noting the expression on his
wife's face, " and I am glad to have him come here, but, on
Harold's account — "
She turned on him furiously : " Never mind Harold. You
need n't hide behind him. If you are jealous, speak for
yourself without sneaking behind the child."
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His face flushed, but he said quietly: "I am not jealous,
Sally. I have never interfered with your pleasures, and I 'm
glad to have you have a good time, but the boy is old enough
to notice things, and if the servants talk he will be sure to — '
"Servants talk'!" she screamed, echoing his words;
" let them talk : what do I care ? I can take care of myself,
and I will see as much of Lawrence Delaney as I please."
She approached him and shook her finger in his face as if
she would like to strike him, her eyes small, and her features
bearing the expression of rage that made her look like a
vicious little beast.
Wilton did not attempt to answer. He looked down at
the floor and unconsciously began once more to try to make
the corner of the rug lie flat. It flashed over him he had
tried to do the same thing every time he had a dispute with
his wife, and this thought diverted him for an instant, but he
frowned and concentrated his mind upon the situation
which confronted him. His silence did not tend to mollify
his wife; on the contrary, it rasped her; it always irritated
her. Anger is a flame which feeds on all kinds of fuel.
"If you have nothing more to say I wish you would go
and leave me alone," she exclaimed.
He arose without a word and left the room.
Mrs. Jack sent word that she would not be down to
dinner. When her sister came to inquire what was the
matter, she did not let her in, but simply said she had a bad
headache and was going to bed early.
That night when Wilton went in to kiss his boy good
night, the little fellow said :
"Papa, s'e is n't dawn."
"No; not yet, Major, but very soon."
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"I fought 'oo said s'e would do to-day."
" So I did ; but you see, Major, mamma can't manage il
to-day, but by-and-bye. You won't have to speak French
with her any more. Nora will look out for you."
The Major liked Nora, and the prospect of her companion
ship and the promise of no more French appealed to him.
He did not care how long Mademoiselle remained in the
house provided he had nothing to do with her; though with
a child's inherent despotism he would have liked very much
to see her put out bag and baggage, — that would have
satisfied his primitive sense of justice.
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CHAPTER XIII
EFFORTS TOWARD COMPROMISE
ON the second of August the teamsters went out at
the Yards. The firemen followed in sympathy, and
as the engineers refused to work with non-union
firemen, the shut-down was practically complete at all the
large plants.
The Yards were a law unto themselves. For years the
growth and prosperity of the city had been so dependent
upon the development of the great packing industries, that
they were looked upon with special favor, and enjoyed many
immunities and privileges not accorded lesser enterprises.
Once when the great packers threatened to withdraw and
establish new Yards just across the line in Indiana, it so
frightened not only the city but the railroads centring in
Chicago, that concessions were immediately made to placate
the great companies.
As against the public, the Yards ordinarily presented a
solid front; as between themselves, employers and employees
were on terms of more or less open hostility most of the
time. When, however, this condition of hostility assumed
the phase of open warfare in the shape of a strike, with all
its incidental lawlessness, both sides promptly appealed to
the city for aid and to the public for sympathy. In the heat
of the controversy grave disclosures affecting public health
and safety were made. Each side accused and betrayed
the other; and for the time being it seemed as if the devious
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and lawless ways of the Yards were about to be exposed.
But just as the highly inflamed indignation of the public
was getting ready to take concrete form in the shape of in
dictments and prosecutions of the guilty parties, all contro
versies were adjusted, all recriminations suddenly ceased,
all solicitude for the general welfare evaporated, and the
Yards once more retired within itself, and went on with its
ancient practices. The men who were fiercest in denounc
ing their employers for violating all the ordinances of the
city and most of the laws of the State, were the first to op
pose the authorities when they attempted to meddle.
Considering the atmosphere in which their working lives
were spent, the atmosphere of indifference to and contempt
for the law, it is small wonder that the men felt as if they
could do as they pleased; that, like their employers, they
might obey or not obey the law, as they saw fit. The only
law-making bodies with power to enforce their decrees the
men knew anything about were their labor unions. These
were potent organizations, trying offenders in secret and
executing them in alleys, in the streets, even in the street
cars, — anywhere and everywhere the thug and the slugger
could reach them. It was all well enough to talk about police
protection, but there were not policemen enough in the city
to follow each man to his home and guard him day and night.
Besides, every one knew most of the police were in sympathy
with the unions.
Hence it was that when the teamsters were called out
they went, to a man, though few knew why, and though the
great majority were satisfied and did not wish to quit work.
There was talk of a readjustment of the scale of wages
and better hours. The officers of the union formulated
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their demands, presented them to the packers, and caused
them to be published in the papers, together with long state
ments tending to show that the men were worked and treated
worse than slaves ; that the average weekly wage of an able-
bodied driver was so low he could not hope to support a
family decently; and that his hours of work were so long he
was given no time for such rest and recreation as is an es
sential part of the gospel of relaxation preached to-day.
These harrowing pictures were met by the employers.
In joint session they appointed an official mouthpiece and
press-agent, who compiled endless figures to prove that the
teamsters were among the favored sons of industry, and that
they received so much and did so little most of them had
become fat and lazy.
Each side had its measure of truth. There were team
sters who were lean and poor in both senses of the term;
there were others who were well paid, well fed, fat, and lazy;
but each side lied so about the other that it was impossible
to get at the truth. However, the public, as usual, entered
into the controversy with zest, and fanned the flame. The
papers published columns of stuff, the exaggerations of the
reporters being treated as sober truths in ponderous editorials
which few read and none heeded. Numerous conferences
were held for the sake of publicity rather than for agree
ment : there were conferences at which both sides were repre
sented, there were conferences at which only one side was
represented, and there were conferences where no one was
present, which took place only in the overworked imagina
tions of the representatives of the press.
Some enterprising young women connected with the
Ruskin Settlement, rushing in where angels feared to tread,
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Efforts Toward Compromise
simplified matters by suggesting to the packers that they
not only yield all the men asked, but go farther and grant
all that the young women thought the men ought to ask.
The social reformer is ever aggressive, and in the person
of the young woman she is irrepressible. The man who
is going to reform the world is content to harangue the
multitude from the street corners, or at most to insinuate a
leaflet — with a request for a subscription — between door
and sill; but the young woman formulates her theories in
the club, and lays them hot-baked upon the desk, or quite
as likely on the lap, of the offending tyrant. She invades
his office, pursues him to his home, dogs his footsteps, inter
rupts his meals, spoils his digestion. She will not be denied.
If she is pretty no one wishes to deny her; but unhappily,
she is not often pretty. Handsome women so seldom try
to reform the world; the historical rumor is to the contrary.
Beauty and reform never go far hand in hand without the
latter succumbing. Indeed, a woman's zeal for social
regeneration has been said to be invariably inverse to her
good looks.
The Ruskin Settlement was an oasis in a desert of poverty,
wretchedness, and vice; a leavening influence in a seething
mass of degradation. Its band of earnest workers had
increased from a few to many. Every young woman who
felt she had a mission, and every young man who felt the
attraction of young women with missions, joined the Settle
ment for longer or shorter periods, according to the strength
of the conviction and the attraction. Not infrequently the
young women and the young men merged their enthusiasms,
and devoted their combined efforts to the solution of the
matrimonial to the neglect of the less intricate social problem;
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thereby unconsciously substituting the egoism of domesticity
for a more abstract altruism.
When Miss Higbee Higginson presented herself at the
office of Ganton & Co., as the duly accredited representative
of the Settlement, and demanded to see John Ganton, she
would not be denied. There was no use telling her he was
out, for she would wait; there was no use telling her he was
busy and could not see her, for the patience and pertinacity
of the woman-reformer outlives all engagements. All this
was known in the office, for they had had experiences with
representatives of the Settlement before, and knew their
characteristics. Besides, such was the disposition of press
and public toward the Settlement that to refuse to see a
representative, even though that representative were a young
woman who knew less than nothing about the business in
which she was meddling, would be bad policy. Miss Hig
ginson, therefore, was received deferentially, if not cordially.
John Ganton was in his shirt-sleeves, wnth his waistcoat
thrown open and his collar unbuttoned as usual. He swung
about in his chair as Miss Higginson entered and seated
herself defiantly; though her mission was supposed to be
pacific, her manner was bellicose.
"I have come to see you, Mr. Ganton, about this strike
at the Yards." Her sharp, shrill voice exasperated the old
man. He had no use for reformers, especially reformers in
skirts ; but he kept his temper and meekly replied :
" Yes, ma'am."
"We think the differences should be arbitrated," she con
tinued.
" Who are ' we,' ma'am ? "
"The Ruskin Settlement, Mr. Ganton," she answered
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with some exultation in her tone, as if the influence and power
of the Ruskin Settlement were too well known in the commu
nity to be denied.
"Oh!" That was all he said. Miss Higginson was
uncertain just what he meant by the ejaculation, and the
doubt annoyed her, so she repeated with additional emphasis :
"We think, Mr. Ganton, the differences should be arbi
trated." She looked at him sharply through her eye-glasses
to note the effect of the suggestion, but his big red face was
impassive to the point of dulness. With one hand he fumbled
the papers on his desk, and his small eyes gazed at her almost
stupidly from beneath the bushy sandy eyebrows.
" What differences ? " the question struck her as extremely
stupid
"What differences!" she exclaimed. "Why the differ
ences between you and the men."
" And what are they, ma'am ? " The " ma'am " annoyed
her, — in the depth of her soul she clung to the belief she was
still young.
"You know what the differences are, Mr. Ganton.
There is no need for me to enumerate them."
"You will confer a favor, ma'am, if you will mention
those you think we ought to arbitrate." He was so defer
ential in his manner it threw her off her guard, and she
replied somewhat helplessly:
" I can't, — that is, I am not prepared to enumerate the
differences at this minute. But," she brightened up, "I
can confer with the teamsters' committee and let you know."
"Oh!"
"In an hour perhaps, anyway not later than this after
noon," she continued hopefully.
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"Oh!"
"And will you arbitrate the differences? "
" Suppose you find there are n't any ? " He peered at her
with a funny expression in his small eyes, which did not
look so sleepy and stupid now.
"Oh, but there are, else there would be no strike," she
confidently urged.
"Suppose, ma'am, you find out whether there are any
differences and what they are, and then talk about arbitra
tion. You might," he accented the " might " significantly,
" conclude the men are in the wrong."
" Oh, that can't be," she exclaimed impulsively.
" Why not, ma'am ? " he asked sharply. " Why can't
the men be in the wrong as well as the employers ? You
come here as the representative of the Ruskin Settlement
and demand that we arbitrate differences you know nothing
about, when you do not even know differences exist. But
you assume there are differences, and that the men are in the
right and we are in the wrong. Your notions may be all
right, but you are meddling in affairs you know nothing about.
Before you make suggestions I should advise you to make
investigations, and," he added significantly, " for your infor
mation, ma'am, I can tell you a strike does not necessarily
mean that there are differences between employer and em
ployees which they cannot settle themselves, when they get
good and ready to settle."
Miss Higbee Higginson was chagrined. She was even
mortified to think she had come on such a mission without
first making some inquiries. To hide her embarrassment
she said defiantly as she rose to go :
" And so, Mr. Ganton, I am to report that you refuse all
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offers of mediation, that you will not arbitrate, that you
refuse — "
" You may say whatever you — ' the old man caught
himself just in time, " please, so long as you get your name
in the papers — that is what you are here for. You and the
Ruskin Settlement want a little free advertising, and think
this is a good time to get it."
The old man's face was red and his small eyes blazed
with anger. He had intended to keep cool ; Browning had
urged him to be diplomatic, but it was no use.
Miss Higbee Higginson was just a little frightened and
made a hasty exit from the small office. The afternoon papers
all had big " scare " head-lines to the effect that the packers
were stubborn, that they refused all offers of mediation and
arbitration, that they were bent upon disrupting organized
labor, and so on, with sensational accounts of the rude re
ception accorded a representative of the Ruskin Settlement,
" that band of philanthropic men and women, enlightened
experts in sociological matters, whose influence for good in
the community, " and so on — and on. In all the reports
Miss Higbee Higginson figured prominently, and the general
impression conveyed was that she had covered herself with
a good deal of glory and not a little immortality by bearding
the packers in their den, and demanding justice for down
trodden employees.
The example of the Ruskin Settlement was contagious;
a strike offers exceptional opportunities for self-exploitation
and notoriety.
The Common Council adopted resolutions appropriate to
the emergency, and appointed a committee to wait upon the
packers — always upon the employers, rather than upon the
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Ganton & Co.
men — and urge such concessions as would immediately end
the strike. The resolutions did not contemplate asking the
strikers — i. e., the voters — to make concessions, it being
tacitly assumed they were not only right in their attitude,
but, withal, exceedingly modest in their demands.
The enterprising secretary of the National Association
for Civic Reform came on from Washington, and made the
strike an occasion for calling a national conference of civic
and other reformers in Chicago, even offering to intervene
personally and officially in the controversy, with a view to
giving it the prominence it deserved, and incidentally work
ing out a solution which would redound to the credit and
profit of his National Association. The fact that he was
at that moment offering to intervene in — to " break into,"
as an irreverent labor journal put it — seventeen other
strikes, ranging from that of the " dock wollopers " in San
Francisco to that of the bobbin-makers in Massachusetts,
did not deter him from facing the Chicago situation. His
Association had as officers and committeemen prominent
politicians enough to settle every strike in the country, and
could furnish any number of arbitrators or conference com
mittees on telegraphic notice, as they were kept constantly
on hand ready for every emergency, and it was an important
part of his business to find or create the emergencies.
The indefatigable secretary was in no wise discouraged
when the packers declined his proffered services. He was
used to that. His services were commonly declined, often
without thanks. If they had been accepted he might have
been at a loss just what to do, since, like Miss Higbee Hig-
ginson, he had not the remotest idea what the strike was
about, and, unlike her, he did not care. Inasmuch as his
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Efforts Toward Compromise
services were declined, he knew precisely what to do. He
called a convention, and arranged to have every man of
prominence in the city who courted publicity preside at some
of the numerous sessions, act as one of the two hundred vice-
presidents, read a paper, or deliver an address. Such was
the sagacity of the experienced secretary that no one was over
looked. Politicians of national, State, and local importance
were to be present in name or person, and the affair speedily
assumed an importance that quite overshadowed the strike
which was its immediate occasion. In fact, the strike was
forgotten; and when the great convention was held, lasting
an entire day, with three sessions, and a banquet the follow
ing evening as a sort of a soft afterglow, only two speakers
referred to the strike, and these were hissed for trying to
destroy the supreme harmony of the occasion by introducing
local matters into debates of national and academic mag
nitude.
Men from every walk in life were gathered upon the plat
form: labor-leaders touched elbows with hated capitalists,
preachers with the politicians they denounced from their
pulpits, doctors, lawyers, and merchants, — all were there,
and each was subdued to the occasion. Utterances assumed
the complimentary and negative line of polite conversations
between foes who happen to meet at a friend's dinner-table.
Labor and capital were lauded to the skies as indispensable
to and dependent upon each other. Though it was frankly
conceded that both might make mistakes, no speaker went
so far as to assert that either had ever really done so. If
not a feast of reason it was a flow of soul. The head of the
American Workingmen's Association clasped hands with the
president of the great Bituminous Trust, and in his address
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Ganton & Co.
spoke eloquently of " that new era, the dawn of which is
even now breaking over the rugged hilltops, when labor and
capital shall be united, and shoulder to shoulder stand
triumphant before the world." That was the key-note of
the assembly, and each speaker played his little variation on
the theme. The only discord was when a half-intoxicated
delegate from the Workingmen's Club of Englewood blurted
out the question:
" How about this strike down at the Yards ? "
He was promptly suppressed, and the chairman — one
of the leading merchants of the city — expressed the hope
that " nothing further would occur to mar the felicity of this
great occasion. We are not here," he continued grandly,
"to discuss local matters."
"Then what the hell are we here for?" shouted the
obstreperous delegate.
The chairman paused as if grieved, and continued firmly :
"We are here to discuss questions of the highest general
import, questions of sociological significance, questions —
questions — " the chairman lost himself in the breadth of his
comprehension, but immediately added, grandiloquently,
"questions which the world expects us to answer."
He swept his arms about him as if to embrace the universe.
There was a hush, in the midst of which the Englewood dele
gate remarked loud enough for all to hear:
"Rot!"
The convention was considered a great success; before
adjourning it passed a resolution — prepared in advance to
meet such an emergency — complimenting the secretary for
his patriotic and disinterested efforts.
The proceedings filled columns of the city papers, and
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Efforts Toward Compromise
were telegraphed broadcast by the Associated Press. The
great end, publicity, was attained, and the National Asso
ciation for Civic Reform had accomplished its purpose.
True, it had not brought the packers and the teamsters
together, it had not brought any particular workman nearer
his particular employer, it had not attempted either of these
insignificant ends; but it had brought labor and capital
together on the same platform, where they could indulge in
platitudes to the edification of the admiring public.
The strike was made the subject of sermons in those
churches where the preacher, too, felt the need of publicity ;
the occasion being especially fruitful to those unattached
divines who felt so personally and particularly called by the
Lord that they could not be restrained within established
orders, but had places of talk of their own. Every American
city contains a number of these zealous spirits; a number
directly proportioned to the population, some two or three
to the million, — for more the papers have not space. They
gather their texts from head-lines, their themes from the
criminal columns, their inspiration from the events of the
day, and they not only keep abreast of the times, but now
and then thump it familiarly on the back. They attend
meetings, dinners, conferences, and conventions, deliver
long invocations, speak when called upon, and if not called
upon speak just the same; the narrow confines of their
pulpits they find irksome, and they always furnish the papers
with outlines of the sermons they intend to deliver. If these
worthy men could have agreed they would undoubtedly
have called upon the packers in a body, and protested against
the tyranny of capital, but unhappily they could not agree
concerning either this world or the next. Each, therefore,
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Ganton & Co.
separately took it upon himself to settle the strike by
visiting one or more of the packers, and urging arbitration
or some other popular course. Failing in this mission, each
had material for his Sunday's sermon and his Monday's
publicity. When the strike did come to an end, and without
their assistance, down in their hearts they regretted the loss
of good material, for there is no use fulminating against
capital when labor says it is satisfied; when the lion and
the lamb lie down together the occupation of the shepherd
is gone.
When one of the independent pastors forced his way into
the house of George Borlan, and urged the settlement of the
strike, talking about the needs of the workingman and the
beneficent influence of the unions, Borlan lost all patience,
and in his nervous way answered:
"Unionism stands for corruption, lawlessness, and plun
der. It stands between the employee and the employer with
itching palm ready to take the bribe it demands. It has
destroyed every relation of confidence, good-will, and esteem
between master and man. It has reduced labor to a com
modity to be dealt in wholesale. It has destroyed the indi
viduality of the workman by denying him the right to work
when, where, and for whom he pleases, as long as he pleases,
and for the wages he pleases. It denies the right of the
coming generation to work by curtailing the number of
apprentices. It denies the right of the ambitious workman
to get on by limiting the amount of work he shall do each day.
It does all it can to prevent a man from working at more than
one trade, fining the gas-fitter if he does the work of the
plumber, the bricklayer if he puts a few stones in place, the
painter if he hangs a strip of wall-paper. The history of
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Efforts Toward Compromise
mankind knows no tyranny so arbitrary, so complete, so
oppressive and heartless, as that of the modern trades union
over its terrorized members. "
" Would you destroy the unions ? " asked the amazed
pastor.
"Destroy them!" Borlan exclaimed as he paced to and
fro. " Why should I, as an employer, destroy them ? They
cause us some inconvenience now and then, but it is cheaper
for us to buy a few leaders than deal with all our men."
"I am surprised, Mr. Borlan, to hear that the employers
descend to such corruption. "
" Corruption ! Corruption ! " Borlan fairly shouted ; " it is
not we who corrupt. You can't corrupt these men, — they
are rotten to the core before they ever come to us. They get
their positions because they are rotten, because unionism is
rotten and needs rotten agents to perform its dirty work.
The theory of unionism is rotten, and therefore the practice
must be rotten; the men choose their own representatives,
and we deal with them on their own terms. It is not for us
to tell them they are corrupt, for the men know it, their
unions know it, and the court records show it. If one of
these men is convicted of selling out his union, and sentenced
to the penitentiary, is he repudiated by the unions ? No ;
and you know it. He is hailed as a martyr, reelected to
office, welcomed as a hero, and greeted with wild applause
by every union gathering where he appears. Why should
we expose and convict when it is cheaper and more popular
to buy ? Go about in the union headquarters down town ,
and you will soon learn who are running this strike. Three
men, just three men, have the matter in the hollow of their
hands."
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Ganton & Co.
" If that be so, Mr. Borlan," the worthy pastor interrupted
with some emphasis, "and they are as corrupt as you say,
why have n't you paid them and stopped the strike ? " The
good man smiled at the dilemma in which he thought he
placed Borlan ; the latter hesitated a moment, and said :
"You are now talking of matters which do not concern
you. All I can say is the packers are not in business for their
health, and they are not fighting strikes as a matter of prin
ciple. When they get ready to settle the strike it will come
to an end, and not before. Meanwhile you and your asso
ciates can go on patting the unions on their backs; but
don't forget that a short time ago you were, every man of
you, denouncing the livery drivers' union for striking and
interfering with weddings and funerals, — your business ;
from the point of view of the driver, the wage-earner, what
difference does it make whether he hauls a corpse, or a
bridegroom, or sugar-cured hams ? Why have not the livery
drivers the same right to strike and make it warm for ' scabs '
who take their places at funerals, as our teamsters ? If inde
cent — as you all shouted from your pulpits — to interfere
with the burial of the dead, is it not doubly indecent and crim
inal to interfere with the cartage of food for the living ? "
The worthy pastor of independent and sensational pro
clivities was greatly shocked, and picking up his hat he
hurriedly left the house.
[218]
CHAPTER XIV
THE WORK OF THUGS
THERE was rioting in the streets whenever the packers
attempted to haul goods with non-union teamsters.
The police endeavored to preserve peace with the
least possible interference with the rioters. Meanwhile the
price of meat steadily advanced from day to day, and
the stock accumulated in the warehouses was being disposed
of at a handsome profit.
Old John Ganton had numerous conferences with Nor-
berg; of all the conferences held in the city these were the
only ones which really meant anything, and they were not
reported in the papers.
One evening after a particularly eventful day, wherein
two men had been nearly killed and many severely injured,
Norberg was closeted with the old man in the private office.
"The tie-up must last two weeks longer, Norberg; can
you rely upon Ballard and those two loafers, Scotty and
Fanning ? "
" They 're all right. The leaders will keep the strike
going as long as they can. The teamsters' union alone is
taking in over forty thousand dollars a week in contributions
from other unions. Mighty little of that money will the rank
and file get hold of."
"Umph," the old man grunted; "so that 's their game,
is it?"
"That's where they make their money; strikes pay
nowadays."
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Ganton & Co.
" We need n't have given them one cent. How much will
they collect ? "
"If the strike lasts six weeks, the teamsters will gather
into their treasury from other unions between two and three
hundred thousand dollars, at the very least. In the coal
strike, the anthracite union started out with less than
thirty thousand dollars in its treasury, and when the strike
was called off they had nearly a million. I tell you this
striking business is profitable for every one but the men
who are out of work, and for the public that foots the bills."
"Well, we must keep up a show of doing business with
non-union men."
"Even if a few do get slugged," Norberg interrupted,
smiling deferentially.
"That's their lookout; we shall demand more police
protection, and there will be talk of calling out the militia;
but you tell Ballard and the rascals with him to keep their
organization well in hand and stop the slugging. Yesterday
things went too far."
" That 's just the trouble, Mr. Ganton, the men can't be
controlled. They take the matter in dead earnest. Besides,
Borlan Bros, are making no end of trouble. They are going
right ahead with non-union men, and say they will never
take their old men back unless they quit the unions. Allan
Borlan is talking pretty plainly."
" Allan Borlan is a fool," interrupted the old man, shortly.
"He is telling some pretty plain truths, and Ballard is
getting ugly. If I were the young man I would look out.
Ballard has more ways than one of getting even."
" What do you mean, Xorberg ? " John Ganton looked
sharply at the stolid face of the man before him.
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The Work of Thugs
" I don't know anything, of course, but I 've heard 'em
talking, and the gang is down on young Borlan. He is n't
a bad fellow. I would n't like to see him come to harm.
Could n't you give him a friendly hint, Mr. Ganton, to keep
his mouth shut for a time ? "
Even Norberg rather liked Allan Borlan for his fearlessness
in exposing the way in which the men were betrayed by
their leaders, and no one knew better than he the truth of
every charge made.
" It 's no use, Norberg. I have talked with him, but
he 's as stubborn as a mule. He won't join us in anything.
They must paddle their own canoe, but — " and here the
old man's voice became sharply peremptory, "I don't want
him to come to any harm, — do you hear ? Tell those fellows
they may talk as much as they please and fight Borlan
Bros, all they want to, but if they hurt the young man there '11
be trouble."
When Norberg warned Ballard not to go too far with
Allan Borlan, the latter's face assumed an ugly look. " Then
tell him to keep his mouth shut," was the only response.
Contrary to his usual indifference toward what did not
concern himself or his business, John Ganton could not get
out of his mind what Norberg had said, and it troubled him
so much that at length he told Browning to send for young
Borlan. The next moment he was irritated with himself
for doing so.
When Allan Borlan entered the small office, the keen eye
of John Ganton could see in the young man's careworn face
the effects of the strain he was under; the burden of the
strike had fallen on his shoulders. " You got us into it, you
must fight it out," George Borlan had said at the outset.
Ganton &: Co.
" Sit down, Allan, sit down," the old man said in a friendly
tone. " I sent for you to warn you against going too far in
talking about the rascals who are running this strike; they
are a bad lot."
" I am not afraid of them, Mr. Ganton, and they know it,"
was the firm response.
"All the more danger. They don't fight in the open,
and they 'd just as soon hit a man from behind as not."
" I can take care of myself. At the same time I thank you
for your interest." There was a pause. Allan Borlan was
on the point of saying something. He hesitated, but at
length he looked up and said slowly:
"I had not intended coming here again, Mr. Ganton,
but you sent for me, and now that I am here I can't help
telling you what I think." The old man's lips were pressed
tightly together and the friendly look went out of his counte
nance. "You and the other packers control the men who
are running this strike, and you have them under pay. You
struck our plant first because I refused to join with you and
put up money, and you are willing there should be a shut
down now because you have big stocks on hand. This is an
employers' strike, not a labor strike, and the poor devils
who are out of work and wages are being played by both
sides. Now, who are responsible for the disturbances, the
disorder, the riots, the assaults ? Are the three loafers who
are running the labor end responsible or the employers who
control them ? Are — "
"Look here, young man, if you mean to insinuate that
I — that I — " the old man's face was purple with rage
and he could scarcely speak, " you may go to — hell for all
I care. Get out of here now — clear out!"
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The Work of Thugs
Without another word Allan Borlan left the small office.
As he disappeared through the door, John Ganton swung
around in his chair with a vicious twist and looked out on
the street below, his features working, muttering to himself.
Yet a look of indecision crept into his features, for he could
not rid himself entirely of the feeling that Allan Borlan was
right; where did the responsibility rest?
When Norberg came in about five o'clock John Ganton
once more, and this time more emphatically, told him to warn
the leaders against violence. "I won't have it," he almost
shouted ; " if they don't call off their thugs I '11 land them in
prison, every mother's son of them."
Night and day Allan Borlan had worked with feverish
energy to keep his plant going. As fast as the employees
of one department after another quit work he got in new
hands to take their places. These he housed and fed in the
Yards, but they were so inexperienced that the work went
on under difficulties. With indefatigable energy he was
here and there in every building, in every room from the
killing to the shipping, directing, showing, often doing the
work with his own hands. When the rioting was fiercest he
mounted a wagon, and without the slightest hesitation drove
into and through the mobs outside the gates, against the
earnest protestations of the police, choosing the streets
where the danger was greatest. Strangely enough, instead
of being stoned, he was cheered by the strikers themselves,
and when some young toughs started to throw stones, they
were so roughly treated by some of the striking teamsters
that thereafter when the young man appeared on one of the
wagons he was allowed to pass without hindrance.
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Ganton & Co.
The men liked Allan Borlan, — the harder he fought them
the better they liked him, all except the leaders he denounced.
These scoundrels hated him just because he was so popular
among the men, because the men trusted him, and in their
hearts felt he was telling the truth about the situation. The
more intelligent among the rank and file began to talk among
themselves, and ask what the strike was about anyway, and
who would be benefited in the end, wondering where all the
money wras going that was being contributed each wreek by
other unions. Some said this amounted to ten thousand
dollars a week, and some said one hundred thousand dollars,
but whether ten thousand or a hundred thousand made little
difference, — the men got little of it.
Two or three relief stores had been opened near the
Yards early in the strike, but the supply of food and neces
saries quickly gave out, and the families, the women and
children who most needed help, never seemed to get anything.
There were mutterings and discontent; only the threats of
the leaders and business agents kept the good men in line, the
loafers who did the rioting and backed up the professional
toughs and sluggers who did the fighting, all these were well
taken care of from some mysterious source. They had plenty
of money, as every saloon-keeper in the vicinity could testify.
No one did so much to spread distrust and discontent
among the men as Allan Borlan. He lost no opportunity
to speak to them. He invited conferences, and again and
again laid bare the inner workings of the strike. He did not
mince matters, but named the leaders who had sold out
their unions; his bitterest denunciations being directed
against Ballard, who received from his spies exaggerated
reports of wThat was said.
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The Work of Thugs
So great an impression did Allan Borlan make that at
length some of his old men, men with families dependent
upon them, one by one appeared at the office, tore up their
union cards, and asked to be taken back. Among the first
was old Mike.
" I told you, and the rest of the boys, Mike, that if you
went out you were out for good," said Allan Borlan to the
old man who stood before him, twisting his old battered hat
in his hands, a pathetic figure, looking more poverty-stricken
than ever ; " but if any of you want to come back as indi
viduals, not as members of a union, you can come."
" I have to find work, Mr. Borlan. There are too many
of us to live on what the union gives."
" Get your team and I will make the first trip with you,
to see you safe down town."
"There 's no need of that, sorr, I can go alone." The
old man was no coward.
" I 'm afraid not, Mike. They will be down on you."
There were no cheers for Allan Borlan as he rode down
beside Mike. He noted the scowling faces and ominous
signs, and when they returned he asked for an escort of police
for the old man.
Another trip to the city was made in safety, but that night
when Mike boarded a car just outside the gates to go home
two men got on the platform. When he stepped down in
front of the little old frame house, hardly more than a shanty,
where he lived, one of the men came up behind him, the
other in front. The one in front said, " You damned scab,
take that!" and dealt the old man a stunning blow in the
face. Before he could defend himself the thug behind
grabbed him about the body, pinning his arms to his sides,
Ganton & Co.
holding him defenceless against the ugly blows that were
rained upon his bleeding face by the first assailant. Covered
with blood, he was left lying unconscious in the road, where
his old wife and daughter found him, and with the aid of the
neighbors carried him into the house. In spite of all they
could do, he remained unconscious through the night, and
when the doctor came he said the old man's skull had been
fractured by something heavier than a man's bare fist.
Before the ambulance arrived the old man was delirious.
With a strong brogue he talked of his boyhood, of his home
in Ireland, of the days when he courted his wife. His
mutterings gradually became incoherent, until he knew no
one about him, not even the little grandchildren who stood
half frightened, half curious by the rickety old couch. Now
and then he said something about the strike, but his voice
fell so low they could not understand.
Before he could be moved to the County Hospital for an
operation, the old man died, — the first victim of the strike.
When Allan Borlan heard of the cowardly murder his
face assumed a look of grim determination. Mounting one
of the wagons, he drove straight into the crowd of strikers
assembled without the gates. The news of Mike's death
had spread with that mysterious rapidity which character
izes the dissemination of bad news, until every one in the
neighborhood of the Yards, even the most ignorant foreigners,
knew all about it. There was some exultation on the part of
the ugly and vicious, but for the most part the strikers them
selves were depressed and silent; Mike had been a well-
known figure in and about the Yards for a generation, and the
men liked him, besides they knew how sorely he needed the
work. Therefore, when the wagon on which Allan Borlan
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The Work of Thugs
was standing stopped in their midst and he began speaking
with all the energy and all the bitterness he possessed, they
were cowed and listened without a murmur. Even Ballard,
who was lounging in the doorway of a saloon with his hands
in his pockets, made no attempt to stay the torrent of denun
ciation which was poured out upon the unions and their
methods.
"Too cowardly to fight man to man in the open, you
employ thugs and murderers to do your work. Like a pack
of whipped curs, you cower before me. Alone and unarmed
I am in your midst, and not one of you dares lift his hand
against me. But at night, in the darkness of alleys, in the
shadows of buildings, by twos and threes, you and your paid
thugs lie in wait for an unsuspecting and defenceless victim.
If an old man, or a boy, or a woman, your courage rises to
the striking point, and you beat and maim and kill, all in the
name of your unions; for all that is foul and cowardly
Chicago has become a byword in the mouth of peace-loving
people. No city on the face of the earth has been so dis
graced, so humiliated, so injured in reputation and prosperity
by unionism, as Chicago. It is shunned by decent people
as a resort for outlaws and criminals.
"I once thought there was some good in labor unions,
that some good might grow out of them, and I stood for
them, and even encouraged their organization. Now I know
I was wrong ; now I know they are rotten and corrupt to the
core, that they are organized and controlled to suit the
selfish ends of the unscrupulous demagogues who run them,
and that you, the rank and file, have nothing to say; you are
terrorized into blind obedience to orders. You strike when
you are told to strike, and you work when you are told to
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Ganton & Co.
work, without daring to question or protest. You are bought
and sold, and you know it. The men who manage your
unions get rich and live in luxury. Where do they get the
money ? Out of your earnings and out of the employers
they blackmail by threats of ruin. Show me a labor leader
who is not living in luxury, who is not openly or secretly
laying up more money than he could ever earn at any honest
calling! From the bottom of my soul I pity you, robbed of
your earnings, of your employment, driven about like cattle,
bought and sold like so many sheep, deceived and cheated
in your ignorance by unscrupulous leaders, you stand here
to-day conscious that the blood of an old man, a man you
liked and who liked you, is on your heads. That he was
killed at the command of your leaders, that he was murdered
by your paid tools, and — " pausing a second with uplifted
arm pointing directly at Ballard, "there, there in that door
way, with his hands in his pockets, as smiling as a fiend from
hell, is the man who prompted the murder."
Every eye in the crowd was turned upon Ballard. Sur
prised by the suddenness of the attack, he started, withdrew
his hands from his pockets, and turned a sickly yellow. He
attempted to smile, but fear and rage distorted his features.
Losing the self-control that so seldom deserted him, he
shook his fist toward Allan Borlan, muttered something
beneath his breath, turned quickly, and disappeared within
the saloon.
The tension was so great that an audible sigh of relief
went up as the door closed behind Ballard. As Allan Bor
lan went back into the Yards more than one man whispered
to his neighbor, " I should n't like to be in that young fellow's
shoes, Ballard 's a bad one when he gets started."
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The Work of Thugs
" What do you think he '11 do ? " asked one man.
" Who can tell ? But if I were Borlan I 'd keep my eye
peeled going home."
"And steer clear of alleys," was the significant rejoinder.
For a day or two there was a lull in hostilities. All of
Borlan's men were sorry for the death of old Mike, and
many of the strikers contributed to the fund raised for his
widow and daughter. A committee even waited upon
Allan Borlan, and in rough terms expressed their regret the
old man had been killed, presenting at the same time a
resolution which some cleverer hand had drawn, to the
effect that "union labor condemns lawlessness as contrary
to its fundamental principles," and so on.
Allan Borlan listened to what the spokesman of the
committee, one of his own teamsters, had to say. He read
the resolution, and the curl of his lips showed the contempt
he felt.
"I believe you are sincere, boys, in your regret for the
death of Mike. There is not one of you he has not helped
out in some way; there was n't a better teamster or a more
loyal friend in the Yards. He did not want to quit, but he
stood by you and obeyed orders until his family was starving.
When he found that the money contributed for the support
of the strikers did not reach them, that he could not pay rent
or get food enough to keep him alive, he had to come back
to work, and the union turned its paid assassins upon him
and killed him in cold blood. Now, you pass this lying
resolution; you did not draw it, you did not even adopt it,
but some one more cunning has put it in your hands to
deliver to the public. Every man of you knows as well as
I do that it is false. Take your lying resolution back to the
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man who drew it — I can guess his name — and tell him
from me he is a murderer in his heart, and the blood of Mike
is on his cowardly head."
The men were so abashed by the words and manner of the
young man, that without attempting any reply they silently
filed out.
George Borlan had listened from an inner office, and
when the men were gone he said :
" What 's the use of talking to them that way, Allan ?
It can do no good, and it only makes bad matters worse."
" I can't help it. It 's all true, every word."
" That may be, but what 's the use stirring up so much
ill-feeling ? We '11 have to make some deal with them in
the end."
" Never. I will quit the business before I will have any
thing to do with these unions," was the emphatic response.
George Borlan shrugged his shoulders, and retired into
his own office, but on the way home that night he urged:
"You had better be careful about going out evenings.
Those fellows have it in for you, and they won't stop at
anything."
" They are a lot of cowards."
"That may be," said the elder brother earnestly, "and
therefore all the more dangerous. They may waylay you
anywhere."
" I can take care of myself," was the curt response.
" Do you carry a pistol ? "
" No; that is a sign of cowardice. When I carry a pistol
I will join the police force." Allan Borlan had profound con
tempt for men who carried weapons. In his mind it was a
confession of fear and lack of confidence not only in one's
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The Work of Thugs
self, but in the community generally. " It reduces us all to
the level of border ruffians," he remarked.
" Well, I can't see much difference between Chicago with
a strike on and a lawless mining camp. Life is certainly no
safer," answered his brother.
"If I lived in a mining camp I would find some way of
protecting myself besides carrying a bowie-knife and a six-
shooter, like a drunken tough."
With reckless indifference, Allan Borlan sought excuses
for going out evenings. He attended meetings down town,
held conferences at their city offices, made speeches, pub
lished interviews, and in every possible way made himself
obnoxious to the unions. Notwithstanding his youth and
inexperience, he was the head and front of the fight against
the unions. The other packers contented themselves with
a show of opposition ; they were so little aggressive, that the
public suspected they were only too well satisfied with the
situation. The price of meat was steadily advancing.
Nearly a week had elapsed since the death of old Mike.
There had been no additional fatalities, though many non
union men had been viciously assaulted, and a few union slug
gers had been arrested. These had been either discharged
or let off under suspended sentences by complaisant political
magistrates. So far not a rioter had been fined or committed
to jail, the extent of their inconvenience being measured by
a night in the station-house. This lax administration of
justice was attracting attention and threatened to develop
into a scandal.
It was Saturday night. Allan Borlan left the Yards later
than usual to hasten home for dinner, to attend afterward
an important conference at their city offices. It was nearly
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midnight when he and his brother started for home; they
took an Indiana Avenue car, which carried each within a
block of his home; Allan Borlan got out at Twenty-first
Street to go over to Prairie Avenue, where he lived with his
mother, wrhile George rode some blocks farther south.
The two had discussed long and earnestly the business
of the evening, and when Allan left the car his mind was so
preoccupied with the various considerations urged by his
brother that he walked east on Twenty-first Street with less
than his usual caution. He never thought to keep well to
the outer edge of the walk, as had been his custom of late,
but walked slowly along, his hands in his pockets and his
eyes on the walk, thinking. The street was dimly lighted;
he had just passed the corner of the alley extending south
between two stables, when he heard footsteps behind him.
Turning quickly, he caught a glimpse of the face of a man
who darted out of the shadow of the building, and before he
could defend himself, struck him a blow on the head with
some heavy weapon. With a groan that was little more
than a deep sigh, the young man sank to the ground in a heap.
Stopping but a second to look at his victim, the assailant fled
south through the alley.
About three in the morning the policeman who covered
that beat found Allan Borlan, called the patrol, and had him
taken to St. Luke's Hospital. He was not dead, but for three
days, in spite of every effort to arouse him, he remained in a
comatose condition. The surgeons were at a loss to account
for this prolonged lethargy. The skull was not fractured,
though he had evidently been dealt a heavy blowr with a
sand-bag. Quite likely a clot of blood had formed, but his
stupor was so complete it was impossible to form an opinion
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Allan walked slowly along the dimly lighted street, his hands in his
pockets and his eyes on the sidewalk, thinking.
The Work of Thugs
as to the location of the clot and attempt its removal. There
was nothing to do but encourage by every means known to
science some signs of returning consciousness.
When Allan's paralyzed brain did begin to recover its
dormant powers, it was observed he was flighty and forget
ful, manifesting only a vague interest in what was going on
about him. He expressed no surprise on finding himself in
the hospital, nor did he so much as inquire how he came
there; as his condition improved, they asked him about the
circumstances attending the assault, to see if it was not pos
sible to identify his assailant, but he could recall nothing
that had happened that evening. He did not remember
that he had attended any meeting in the city, or that he had
taken the car with his brother. He had a confused recol
lection of a strike, — " somewhere," as he put it, — and knit
his brows and tried to think. " But I don't know just where,
it must have been a long time ago," he said slowly, the image
of the reality flitting so elusively before his disordered memory
that it seemed remote and unsubstantial.
When his brothers came to see him he made no attempt
to talk about business. His interest in the affairs of Borlan
Bros, had so completely evaporated that for him the firm
no longer existed.
To his mother he turned for rest and consolation, like a
little child; he kissed her again and again, as he had when
a boy playing by her side, and he held her hand by the
hour, as she sat by the bed struggling bravely but often
ineffectually to keep back the tears that filled her eyes.
Specialists were called, and after exhaustive examinations
and tests, they shook their heads, baffled.
"No positive sign of physical injury, either external or
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internal, appears," they said. "An operation at present
would be probing in the dark. There is nothing to do
but wait. He may recover his intellectual powers any day,
then again — They hesitated to pronounce the dread
alternative of a life of comparative imbecility, but that was
what they meant, and every one knew it.
When able to move about, he was the shadow of his
former self, the wreck of a man physically and mentally.
He walked slowly, hesitatingly, as if uncertain of himself,
bending forward to make sure of his steps, and leaning
heavily upon a cane. He loved the sunshine, and sat for
hours in the small yard back of their house, merely vege
tating, barely taking note of what went on about him, but
responding with a sweet smile and some vague remark when
ever any one addressed him.
[234]
CHAPTER XV
END OF THE STRIKE
THERE was great consternation at the Yards when it
was reported Allan Borlan had been assaulted and
could not live. Throughout the city the news spread
and aroused such a feeling of resentment and indignation,
such a storm of protest and denunciation against the city
authorities, the police, and the unions, that the leaders were
cowed and sought peace. Most of the strikers realized that
matters had gone too far, and even the yellow journals,
which find capital in fomenting discontent and disorder, were
obliged to come out for the moment on the side of law and
order, and condemn brutalities, not as criminal, but "as
injurious to the great cause of union labor." At the same
time, however, urging apologetically that "there is no evi
dence the assault upon Mr. Borlan had any connection with
the strike. It might have been one of the many hold-ups for
which Chicago is gaining such an unenviable notoriety, and
for which the present city administration is directly respon
sible," at once seeking to relieve unionism and turn the
crime to political account.
Utterances like these deceived no one; everybody knew
Allan Borlan was the victim of the cowardly vengeance of
the men he had denounced. He had no other enemies, and
the fact that his money and watch were found upon him
proved conclusively he was not the victim of an ordinary
city highwayman.
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Ganton & Co.
In the vicinity of the Yards there was only one opinion
concerning the identity of the man responsible for the assault:
if Ballard did not do it himself, — and those who knew him
well felt sure he did, — he had ordered it done. This was
the conviction of most of the men, and they did not hesitate
to express this conviction covertly among themselves; but
keen detectives employed by Borlan Bros, could not dis
cover sufficient evidence to connect him with the crime.
All they could learn was that he had attended a committee
meeting down town on the night in question, leaving about
eleven o'clock to go to his rooms in Wabash Avenue. In the
apartment building where he lived no one knew what hour
he had entered, but a woman on the floor below thought she
heard him walking about long after midnight; that was all,
not enough to justify his arrest. Meanwhile Ballard was
not so much in evidence about the Yards. His face had lost
none of the cold, cynical, at times ugly expression which
made him feared by his most intimate associates, but he
thought it wise to stick close to headquarters until the storm
of indignation blew over.
On the Monday afternoon following the assault, Norberg
and he met in the room above the saloon on Clark Street, in
response to Norberg's urgent telephone message.
The secret agent of Ganton & Co. was covered with per
spiration, nervous, and excited as he hurriedly entered the
dingy room where Ballard was already seated coolly smoking
a fine cigar.
Carefully locking the door behind him, Norberg exclaimed
excitedly :
" I say, Ballard, this thing has gone too far."
" What has gone too far ? " was the nonchalant response.
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End of the Strike
" This — this — you know what I mean. The jig 's
up; the old man is terribly worked up over this slugging
of young Borlan, and he threatens to help land some one
in Joliet."
"You can tell the old man to go to hell!" This time
Ballard's eyes flashed, and he struck his fist heavily on the
beer-stained wooden table. " If he goes to making trouble,
things may come out he would not like."
Norberg knew what the threat meant, and furthermore
he knew, if pushed to the wall, Ballard was desperate
enough to make his threats good regardless of consequences,
so he said more soothingly:
"All the same, Ballard, you must call the strike off."
" That 's easier said than done. Why should we send
the men back to work?"
" The public is getting worked up — the slugging of
Borlan—"
"Then lower the price of meat," interrupted Ballard with
a sneer, " and the public will forget all about that little affair."
Paying no attention to the other's tone, Norberg continued
hurriedly: "We can arrange for a conference to-morrow
morning, and there can be a show of give and take on both
sides, with talk of leaving all differences to arbitration. That
will give you a chance to order the men back."
" That 's all very fine, Norberg, but it won't work without
a little lubrication. Let me see," Ballard thought a moment,
tapping his fingers on the table as if counting, " it will take
just about ten thousand dollars to call this strike off."
" Ten thousand nothing ! " shouted Norberg hotly. " You
fellows have been well paid, and you are lucky to get out with
any sort of recognition, for I can tell you, Ballard, some of
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Ganton & Co.
the packers are in favor of seizing this opportunity to shut
the unions out of the Yards entirely."
"Let them try it," interrupted Ballard, and his face
assumed the look that all his associates feared.
"Anyway, there 's no use asking for more money."
"Ten thousand dollars, or let them take the conse
quences," Ballard repeated laconically. Norberg knew it
was useless to argue with the man. The matter would have
to be fought out, or the money paid.
A day or two later the papers contained announcements
that a conference had been arranged, and that there was a
prospect of adjusting differences. The mayor, the commit
tee of aldermen, the Ruskin Settlement, the independent
clergy, and the indefatigable secretary of the National Civic
Association came out in carefully prepared interviews, claim
ing the credit of having brought the contending parties
together.
At the meeting there was talk of conciliation and arbitra
tion and concessions. The result was that the men, or rather
all for whom there was work, were ordered back with no
advance in wages or change in conditions of employment,
but with the vague promise something would or might be
done for them in the near or distant future. The net result
to the men was a loss of so many weeks' wages, and the loss
of positions for a large number, for it was tacitly understood
that the companies would take this opportunity to weed out
a lot of old and worn-out employees. The unions made
loud complaints that the men were not all taken back, but
these complaints were not intended to carry weight save
here and there where a local leader or agitator had been inad
vertently dropped; for the old men with families who were
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End of the Strike
not taken back, the unions had no solicitude beyond a general
protest which amounted to nothing.
The public was disappointed because the price of meat
did not drop immediately upon the ending of the strike, but
the packers explained at length that the plants were in a
condition of great disorder, the business disorganized, stocks
on hand greatly reduced, so it was impossible to reduce
prices; also, somewhat inconsistently, that prices were kept
up by the retail dealers rather than the wholesale. To the
surprise of the public, all these explanations, consistent and
otherwise, were affirmed as reasonable by the strikers, by the
very men who but a few days before had been accusing the
packers of all sorts of unlawful practices to keep prices up.
The Yards were once more united against city, State, and
nation, against everybody and everything outside the gates.
No one could estimate the profits Ganton & Co. made,
directly and indirectly, out of the strike. It was easy to
figure the saving in wages and running expenses, and the
advance in the prices of nearly all food products, but John
Ganton had taken every advantage of the market. Before
the strike was rumored he had gone short of ribs, pork, corn,
and wheat on the Chicago Board of Trade, and of a large line
of stocks on the New York Exchange ; during the progress of
the strike he had used all the resources at his command to
depress the market, and before there was so much as a sug
gestion of a settlement he covered his short lines at a huge
profit.
" I '11 bet the old rascal has made over a million out of the
strike," Range Salter remarked enviously.
As a matter of fact, that figure was considerably below
the truth.
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Ganton &: Co.
Notwithstanding the successful outcome of all his plans,
John Ganton was restless and irritable; he worried over
the condition of Allan Borlan, and every one in the office
knew it.
" How is he getting on ? " was the question he asked
Browning every morning.
" Just the same," was the invariable response; whereupon
the old man shuffled about uneasily, and paid no attention
to the telegrams and letters on his desk for some time. Dur
ing the day it was not uncommon for Browning to find him
gazing out of the window in an absent-minded fashion, so
unlike his accustomed manner that at length Browning
ventured the inquiry:
" Are n't you feeling well, Mr. Ganton ? "
With a start the old man wheeled around in his chair.
"I don't know, Browning. I ain't quite up to the mark;
my stomick 's out of sorts lately, but I guess I'll be all right
in a day or two."
" Why don't you see a doctor ? "
"Doctors are all fools; a good dose of castor oil is all I
need. Why don't the doctors help young Borlan ? " he sud
denly asked. " If they know so much, why don't they help
him?"
"His is a very strange case; some injury to the brain."
" Well, why don't they cure him ? — the idiots ! " The tone
was so sharp, and at the same time plaintive, that Browning
looked up surprised. " Why don't they cure him ? " The
question was monotonously repeated, then suddenly, " Brown
ing, I would give ten thousand dollars to see that young fellow
all right again."
"They are doing everything they can, Mr. Ganton."
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End of the Strike
" I suppose so, I suppose so ; but the doctors are all fools.
They will kill him yet, then that will be their fault, won't it ? "
" It 's not so bad as that. They say he may come to him
self any day. He is sound in every way but his brain."
" Well, is n't that enough ? " the old man snarled. " Keep
posted, Browning, and let me know soon 's he 's better."
There was no doubt about it, John Ganton had changed
since the strike. He was not himself. Others remarked it
besides Browning. He was irritable, — which was nothing
new, for the old man had a violent temper, — but his irrita
bility assumed a new phase; he had become nervously and
fretfully irritable, as if laboring under a heavy weight of
anxiety, or suffering from some unrecognized ailment. At
home his wife noticed he did not eat so heartily as was his
habit, and his appetite was freaky. At one meal he was
ravenously hungry, at the next he might turn suddenly from
the table, exclaiming, "I can't eat anything, Maria."
In response to her anxious inquiries he only said, " I
guess my stomick 's out of kilter."
He took huge doses of castor oil, which would cramp him
double with pain, but afterward he always felt relieved and
could eat with more relish. Nothing would induce him to
see a doctor. "They are all fools," was his stereotyped
reply to the suggestion. "They would just run up big bills
and kill me in the end. When I go to a doctor I will make
a bargain with the undertaker first."
The trouble was not altogether physical. John Ganton's
mind was not at ease. Down deep within his heart he felt
he was in a way to blame for Allan Borlan's condition. Had
he not refused to help the young man, to stand by him,
to fight the strike openly ? Did he not even go so far as
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Ganton &: Co.
to encourage the strike of Borlan Bros.' men in advance ?
That was what troubled him, and made him so anxious
about the young man's condition.
Another matter was the report that Will was to marry May
Keating. This news came like a bolt out of a clear sky.
Just after a meeting of the directors of the bank Range
Salter turned to him and said, "Well, Ganton, I hear Will is
engaged to the Keating girl ; I thought you were down on the
old man."
John Ganton was staggered, and could only look at Salter
in dumb amazement; it was the first intimation he had
received that Will had not obeyed his injunction to have
nothing to do with the Keating girls. Without a word he
hurriedly left the bank and returned to his office; calling
for Browning he said to him :
" Look here, Browning, your wife keeps track of what 's
going on in the fool world better than we do. I want you to
tell me plain, have you heard anything about Will and this
Keating girl being engaged ? "
The question took Browning by surprise. He had
heard a good deal, and he more than suspected that what he
heard was true, but he had not intended saying anything
about the matter to John Ganton. It could only make
trouble ; he knew how bitterly the old man disliked Keating,
and he dreaded the consequences of Will's infatuation.
Browning's confusion answered the inquiry more plainly
than words.
"I want the truth, Browning," the old man repeated
sharply.
" I really don't know anything in particular, Mr. Ganton,"
Browning stammered.
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End of the Strike
" But you have heard something. I want to know what
you have heard."
" I have heard that Will is very attentive —
" Have you heard they are engaged to be married ? —
that 's what I want to know! " the old man shouted, his face
red with anger.
"People say they are engaged, but," Browning hastened
to add deprecatingly, "you can't rely upon what people say."
" It is enough that he has given them reason to say so, —
that a son of mine should be even reported engaged to a
daughter of Jem Keating. If he marries her I '11 not leave
him a cent, Browning, — not a red cent! "
"They probably won't marry," Browning urged sooth
ingly. "It does not follow nowadays because young people
are engaged they are sure to marry, — it 's different from
what it was when we were young." Browning tried to
speak lightly, but the attempt was a failure. The old man
was too absorbed in his passion to notice what was said, and
only repeated, half to himself, " I '11 cut him off without a
penny." He clenched the big hairy fist that rested on the
desk, and Browning knew it would be worse than useless to
try to shake his determination.
During the strike Will had worked like a tiger, going to
the Yards early and remaining late, often sleeping on the
old leather-covered couch in his office. The unusual excite
ment appealed to him and aroused his sluggish energies.
To the surprise of many of the foremen, he made himself
useful in more than one department; he stoked in the hot
boiler-rooms or drove teams as the mood seized him, his
strength and endurance commanding the respect of the
brawniest men alongside. The manual labor and outdoor
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Ganton &: Co.
life, the excitement and danger, he liked better than the office
work. As he stood one afternoon all grimy and sweaty at
the door of the boiler-room, he said to Browning, who had
just driven up:
" By Jove, I believe I would make a first-class hand about
the plant, but I 'm no good in the office. It makes me sleepy
to sit at a desk all day."
Browning looked at the stocky, powerful figure before him
and in his own mind agreed it was a mistake to try to make
an office man out of Will Ganton; he was not cut out for
the counting-room.
At that moment one of the negro teamsters who had
been employed to take the place of the strikers drove up, and
throwing down his reins said:
" Dere 's no use, boss, I 'se ready to quit."
" What 's the matter now?" Will asked sharply.
" De crowd 's too big for me. Dey '11 stone me to def
soon 's I git outside de gates; I 'se ready to quit."
" Get back on that seat, you black coward. I '11 see you
through." Will jumped up on the seat beside the man,
who was more afraid to disobey than to face the crowd of
strikers and strike sympathizers outside.
"You better be careful, Will," Browning shouted warn-
ingly as they drove off, but the young man apparently did
not hear. At the big gate a policeman stopped them and
said:
" There 's an ugly crowd outside. Better let me call the
wagon if you intend to drive through."
" Never you mind, officer, I '11 put the wagon through
without an escort. Open the gates."
The officer drew back, shaking his head doubtfully. He
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End of the Strike
knew the temper of the mob outside, for he had been on duty
since early in the morning, and he knew mighty little would
be required to precipitate a riot. The bringing in of negroes
to take the places of the strikers had infuriated the men.
Not a wagon had left the yard with a negro driver without a
police escort, and in several instances drivers and officers had
been indiscriminately stoned. Toward noon there had been
a lull; no wagons went out, and the extra details of police
had returned to the stations.
As the great gates swung open and the wagon passed
through, the horses on a gallop, the crowd outside gave way.
There was a murmur of astonishment when the mob saw
only a single wagon with two men on the seat, and no patrol
wagon following. The audacity of the attempt so dazed
the strikers that for some distance no effort was made to
block the road, but about midway of the second block a
huge truck stood across the narrow street, left there as an
obstacle in the way of any team that might come from the
Yards. On the sidewalk groups of thugs and men reckless
from drink were gathered to take advantage of the blockade.
When Will Ganton, the cowering negro at his side, came
to a sudden stand by the truck, a hoarse growl went up
from the crowd, and there were ugly threats and calls to the
young man to get down and leave the " nigger " to his fate.
A stone was thrown, followed by several, then a fusillade, all
aimed at the negro crouched behind the seat in mortal terror.
A sharp piece of rock hit Will on the forehead, bringing
the blood and rousing in him the fury of a wild animal.
Seizing one of the iron-shod stakes of the wagon, he leaped
from the seat and dashed into the thickest of the mob. In
his blind rage his strength was doubled. At the first sweep
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Ganton & Co.
of the ugly weapon he crushed the arm of the nearest man ;
pressing forward, he swung the merciless stake to the right
and left indiscriminately upon the rioters. They fell back
before his terrific onslaught, turned, and ran, leaving four
of their number bruised and senseless on the pavement.
By the time the officer at the gate came running up, the
trouble was over, the rioters dispersed. Will Ganton's fury
evaporated somewhat as he looked at the bruised and bleed
ing fellows he had struck down. Leaving the police to
ascertain the extent of their injuries and look after them, he
quickly swung the pole of the truck that blocked the street
to one side so as to open up a passageway, resumed his seat,
and ordered the negro to drive on.
When May Keating read in the morning papers highly
sensational, but not greatly exaggerated, accounts of the
"daring of Will Ganton in dashing into a crowd of rioters
and dispersing them single-handed, disabling four and
nearly killing one," her cheeks flushed with excitement, and
she said to her sister:
" I could almost love that sort of a man."
" Well, for my part," exclaimed Mrs. Jack, " I can't see
why he should risk his life among those strikers, — and for a
negro, at that! " Her tone exhibited her profound disgust.
"If for a negro, so much the better; to risk one's life in
any cause is more than most men are capable of doing."
" I suppose now he has broken a few heads you will marry
him," responded Mrs. Jack, hopefully.
" I don't know, — perhaps ; since this strike he has been
a different fellow."
" I should say he had, — so dirty and oily and greasy it
takes one's appetite away to see him at the table."
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End of the Strike
May Keating laughed. The few times Will Ganton had
dined with them at the Club since the beginning of the strike
he certainly had been far from agreeably clean; in spite of
the vigorous use of hot water and the strongest of soft soaps,
his hands and finger nails showed the grimy effects of his
new occupations. For the time being he was a laboring man,
looked like one, acted like one, ate like one.
"Old John Ganton over again," Larry Delaney mur
mured as he watched him one evening across the table;
" he does look like his father, does n't he ? "
" I never noticed it so much before," responded Mrs. Jack.
"He has the body, but not the head," was Delaney's
shrewd observation.
When McCarthy telephoned down how Will had dis
persed the strikers without police assistance, John Ganton
was immensely pleased.
"The boy has the right stuff in him, after all," he said to
Browning. "How many did McCarthy say were hurt?"
"The patrol wagon took four to the County Hospital.
One had his shoulder crushed, and another his arm broken.
It 's a wonder they were not killed."
"Would have served them right if they had been, the
cowardly rascals," The old man's eyes blazed, and he
added, in another tone: "But the boy must not take such
chances, — no need of it. Let the niggers look out for
themselves. Their heads are harder to crack."
Under these conditions John Ganton could not bring
himself to speak to Will about his rumored engagement to
May Keating. His mind was so taken up with the events of
the hour, especially by the assault upon young Borlan and
the settlement of the strike, that the report which at the time
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Ganton & Co.
had aroused his ire was almost forgotten; when he did
think of it he dismissed the matter as beyond the range of
possibilities, and he persuaded himself it was unnecessary
to speak about it again.
This was quite contrary to the habit of John Ganton.
He seldom refrained from speaking without restraint con
cerning anything that crossed his wishes, but his aversion to
Jem Keating was so deep-seated he did not like to talk of
the man. The thought that any son of his could marry
a daughter of the "old reprobate," as he called Keating,
seemed ridiculous. Of course Will could not help meeting
a lot of people at the clubs, the Keating girls as well as
others, good, bad, and indifferent, but further than seeing
them in that way there could be nothing serious.
Beyond lunching hurriedly once or twice a week at the
Club, and dining occasionally with business associates, the
old man knew nothing of social life ; ordinarily he slipped in
by the back entrance of the Grand Pacific and bolted a
luncheon of steak, baked potatoes, and coffee, — the waiter
knew his order. Not infrequently he had a cup of coffee
and a sandwich sent to his office from the lunch-counter in
the building. On days of great excitement in the market
he went without anything to eat until dinner time, but this
he did not believe in for himself or others. He had often
gone so far as to threaten to discharge men whose dinner-
pails came scantily supplied. " I 've no use for a starved
horse or a hungry man."
He cared nothing for politics, he read only the papers,
for years he had not gone to the theatre, he could not
remember when he had been inside a church. Now and
then he attended a bankers' or a merchants' dinner, invari-
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End of the Strike
ably sitting at a table with business associates so he might
talk over the affairs of the day. His name figured on promi
nent committees on great public occasions, but he never
attended meetings or wasted a moment's time, whether the
guest were the Governor of the State or the President.
Outside the Yards and the companies in which he was
interested the world was a passing show to John Ganton,
and one so vain and inconsequential from his point of view
that it did not divert him in the slightest degree.
Aside from the money he had made, which he accepted
as a matter of course, the one encouraging feature of the
strike was the behavior of Will. The unexpected energy
with which the boy worked, the brute force he displayed, his
dare-devil courage, all pleased the old man ; again and again
he said to Browning : " He 's all right. The boy 's got the
right stuff in him," and he rubbed his big hairy hands
together in satisfaction.
About a week after the strike was called off he happened
to meet Range Salter on the street near the Board of Trade,
and the thought suddenly occurred to him it was Salter who
had spoken about Will's engagement.
"Look here, Salter," he said, stopping the other, "you
said something about Will's going to marry that Keating
girl. I want to tell you there 's nothing in it; there 's nothing
in it," he repeated sharply.
" Well, it 's the talk of the town, that 's all I know about
it," Salter answered impatiently.
" You can just say for me there 's nothing in it. Do you
hear ? There 's nothing in it," and John Ganton moved off
toward the entrance of the building.
When Range Salter wrote Mrs. Salter about this conver-
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sation, a smile of satisfaction spread over that little lady's
round face. " I thought as much," she said to herself,
" now there will be some chance for others."
In accordance with her promise, Mrs. Ganton called upon
Mrs. Jack and her sister. It was an eventful day for the
timid little soul in black, the first time in all her life that she
had done anything which she knew was contrary to her hus
band's wishes, the first time she had ever done anything she
felt obliged to conceal from him, and as she drove over to the
North Side her conscience pricked her. Twice she ordered
the man to drive back and then on again, until the coach
man shrugged his shoulders in disgust at what seemed to
him a woman's inability to make up her mind what she
wanted to do.
As they approached the Wilton palace she became more
and more nervous, wringing her thin white hands in positive
distress. Left alone in the grand reception room, her mind
was diverted for the time being by the gorgeousness about
her. She had never seen anything like it ; her own sombre
parlor, with its set of upholstered furniture, its big chande
lier, and profuse stucco ornaments on the ceiling, had always
seemed grand, too grand really to use, but it was barren
simplicity compared with the tiling, the marble, the decora
tions, the paintings, the porcelains, the gilt and glitter of
Mrs. Jack's imposing salon. She shrank into a corner quite
overcome, and during the entire call, — marked by effusive
cordiality on Mrs. Jack's part, and a curious but sympathetic
interest on May Keating's, — she did not fully recover from
the conviction of her own utter insignificance. She felt so
completely out of place, it was with positive relief she heard
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End of the Strike
the massive door close behind her as she hastened down the
stone steps.
Not a word was said of the engagement, and little about
Will ; somehow she could not bring herself to speak of what
was uppermost in the minds of all of them. Several times
Mrs. Jack referred in glowing terms to Will's bravery, his
devotion to business, his ability, and the like, but the mother
could do no more than murmur an assent to these appre
ciations. She could not discuss her boy with these strange
women ; by what right did they talk as if they had an inter
est in him ? The natural, the inevitable resentment of the
mother toward the intervention of the other woman filled
her heart.
She did not like Mrs. Jack so well as her sister. That
she was sure of, though the latter did not make so much of an
effort to be agreeable. There was something about Mrs.
Jack which did not seem true, something forced and artifi
cial, a striving to produce an effect. " She wants her sister
to marry Will. She has set her heart upon it, because she
thinks Will will be rich, — just for his money, that is all.
No; I do not like her, but May Keating — " and for a long
time on the way home she thought of May Keating, of her
father and her mother, of her as she was when a child, of the
family before Jem Keating had failed and fallen so low.
" Yes, she is more like her mother," she thought. " She
has more heart, but the other is like the father. I would not
trust her. I wish Will was in love with some one else. What
shall I do ? " Again she wrung her thin hands in painful
indecision over what she should tell her husband, for she
felt she must sooner or later tell him what had occurred, —
how could she keep it ? Now the call was over, now she had
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done it, it seemed more difficult than ever to keep from tell
ing all about it that very day; an inward voice kept repeat
ing, "You must tell, you must tell, you cannot help telling,"
until she almost made up her mind it was the best thing to
do. But when John Ganton came home that evening he
was so tired and cross she did not dare speak of it.
There was a drawn look in his face she did not like; a
look of pain and suffering rather than of care and worry.
He ate scarcely any dinner.
" What is the matter, John ? Are you sick ? "
"No; I 'm not sick, but my stomick 's all upset, — some
thing I 've eaten. I guess a dose of oil will straighten me
out."
" Remember how it cramped you the last time you took
it. Don't you think you 'd better see a doctor ? " she sug
gested timidly.
"Not if I wTant to keep my feet," he answered irritably.
" I can take care of myself yet."
" You look bilious. I 've never seen you looking so
yellow, John."
"So Browning said. My liver needs stirring up."
" You will be careful what you take, won't you ? You
take such strong doses I am afraid you will hurt yourself."
He made no answer, but pushing his plate to one side, sat
silent, his head dropped forward on his breast, muttering
half to himself, "It 's my stomick that 's out o' kilter."
After dinner he took off his shoes, put on his pair of old
slippers, and went into the library to read the evening paper;
this was his habit when he had no business on hand.
He dropped into the big easy-chair beside the old-
fashioned table, but instead of reading the paper he let
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End of the Strike
it fall in his lap, and his appearance indicated that he was
absorbed in considerations other than the news of the day.
That vague sense of discomfort in his stomach, accom
panied now and then by a sharp pain he did not like, he did
not understand. His health had never bothered him, he
always ate plain food, so why should he be conscious he had
a stomach ? The sense of discomfort had increased of late,
and the pains had become sharper and more frequent; at
first they would just come and go, amounting to nothing, but
of late there had been disagreeable sensations present most
of the time. When his mind was not occupied with other
matters he was conscious of these queer feelings. Such,
however, was his iron will, he had been able for the most part
to suppress even the feeling of bodily discomfort, — to ignore
it as if it did not exist ; but since the strike, since the assault
upon Allan Borlan, the old man had not been quite the same
as before. He was subject to fits of abstraction, and he had
become moody and more irascible than ever. Range Salter
remarked one day to Browning :
"What is the matter with the old man, he looks sick? "
" I don't know," Browning answered slowly; " I am afraid
there 's something wrong with his liver, at times he is so
yellow. But he won't see a doctor."
"He 'd better look out at his time of life," was Salter's
response.
"I have tried to warn him, but he has always been as
strong as an ox, and he does not like to have any one tell him
he looks sick."
As John Ganton sat there under the light of the kero
sene lamp — he would not have an electric light on his table
— he looked so old and careworn and sick his wife was
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frightened. She had never seen him quite like that before,
but she did not dare say anything.
After a silence that lasted so long it was oppressive, he
suddenly observed:
" Maria, they say young Borlan is no better."
"I heard to-day the doctors from New York hold out
very little hope. He is as helpless almost as a baby. What
an awful thing that strike was ! "
" It was n't the fault of the strike," he said sharply.
"Why, they say — "
" It don't matter what they say. No one knows who
did it."
"Will says he is sure it was a man by the name of
Ballard, one of the strike leaders."
" Well, no one knows, — just as likely a common footpad."
" But he was n't robbed, was he ? "
John Ganton made no answer, and apparently did not
hear his wife's remark. His mind followed its own train of
thought. At length, with something like a groan, he said :
" I would give anything if that young fellow were himself
again."
Surprised at his tone and manner, his wife urged sooth
ingly: "Why, John, it can't be helped. It 's not your fault.
You did all you could to end the strike. Will says Allan
Borlan himself did more to bring on the strike than any one
else."
" What does Will know about it ? " the old man inter
rupted angrily. " I wish he would stop talking and tend to
his own affairs. By the way," he said, changing the subject
as if a new thought had occurred to him, " Range Salter said
the other day Will is engaged to that Keating girl. If he
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End of the Strike
goes fooling around those girls there '11 be trouble, — that 's
all I 've got to say."
The old man relapsed into a moody silence, and Mrs.
Ganton's heart sank within her. How could she tell her
husband she had called that day on those very girls ? What
good would it do to tell him ? He would only storm at Will,
and there would be a scene; she would wait until he felt
better and was less irritable.
To divert him, she at length asked timidly :
" What do you hear from John ? "
Her husband's thoughts were elsewhere, and it was several
seconds before he heeded her question.
" John ? Oh, he is doing better 'n I expected ; Mac-
Masters says he 's tending close to business."
This made his mother's heart glad.
" I always knew — "
"He '11 never amount to much," he interrupted roughly;
"he has too many fool notions to make a business man.
What use would he have been in this strike ? "
" I don't know, but — '
" Just no use at all; " the tone of this answer to his own
query betrayed the contempt old John Ganton felt for his
younger son.
The mother subsided ; it was quite useless to argue with
her husband, his opinions were fixed, his prejudices ad
amantine.
The thought of one son evidently brought to mind the
other, for he said sharply :
" I want you to tell Will what I say. If he goes hanging
about those Keating girls there will be trouble. I won't
have it, and that 's all there is about it."
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He picked the paper from his knees. He glanced at the
market reports, and began reading the column headed,
"Gossip on Change." It always amused him to read the
rumors and gossip of the Street, paragraphs in which the
name of Ganton & Co. figured so often and so conspicuously.
Half-way down the column he came upon the following :
" There is an ugly rumor afloat to the effect that the recent
strike was brought on by several of the large packers who
had stocks on hand they wished to dispose of at good prices ;
if so, it is pretty safe to say Borlan Bros, were not in the
conspiracy."
It was just a malicious little paragraph, but the shot
went home. John Ganton angrily threw the paper on the
floor, and dropped his head upon his hand in an attitude of
dejection.
[256]
CHAPTER XVI
BLOOD WILL TELL
THIS was the first summer Mrs. Jack had spent in town
since her marriage. To go somewhere the last week
in June and return during October was a habit with
her, not that she found Chicago hot and disagreeable in
summer, — quite the contrary, — but it was good form to
go somewhere. She had fully expected to go to Norway
this summer; but the possibility of marrying her sister to
Will Ganton kept her at home. It was too good a chance to
let slip.
As for Jack Wilton, he much preferred staying in Chicago.
" Summer 's the pleasantest season of the year, Sally ;
what 's the use of going away ? " he used to say when they
were first married. But he soon found his wife's movements
were governed by considerations other than climatic. He
liked to play golf, to ride and drive, — in short, to do most
of the things Mrs. Jack cared nothing at all about; he did
not like to sit around on club verandas and gossip with
women — " club harpies " he called them. He lacked the
faculty of making himself agreeable, and possibly for that
very reason was popular with all the men and looked upon
with friendly condescension and sympathy by most of the
women of his acquaintance.
August, with its dust and heat, its strikes, riots, and dis
turbances, had gone. Mrs. Jack fumed and fretted ; she did
not care anything about the strike; the Yards were so far
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away that people on the North Side read each morning about
the riots of the day before with the unconcern they felt when
reading of disturbances in Russia. So long as the down-town
district was not invaded, it did not much matter; but what an
noyed Mrs. Jack was that the strike kept Will Ganton so close
ly confined they saw very little of him. She felt, therefore,
as if she were wasting time, as if no progress were being made.
" If we had only known, we might just as well have gone
to the seashore for August," she exclaimed impatiently to
her sister.
"I am not at all bored; I like Chicago best in the sum
mer, when all the people are away," was the quiet response.
May Keating was content to remain in the city for the
very reasons Mrs. Jack wished to get away. She read the
news of the Yards with curious interest, and for the first
time Will Ganton began to interest her as something more
than a good fellow. He became a personality, a force in his
way, — possibly a crude, rough, brutal force in his contact
with the men about him, but none the less a force; and
that is a good deal in a woman's estimation.
She wondered if after all she might not love him, if he
might not possess some of the masterful qualities so essential
to command a woman's devotion ; but every time the thought
of love crossed her mind, memories of another summer, of
another face, another voice, would flow in upon her with
overwhelming force. What was the use ?
She had received but one letter from Gertrude Townsend,
dated from Paris, and it said in part :
" Not a soul, cherie, not a soul ; the world is a desert, Paris
the most barren spot in the universe. So I am bored to
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death, so bored I lack the ambition to move. There is not
a man in sight. Think of it ! I dined last night in the Bois
with Jarvis ! — can you imagine it ? Poor fellow, I really
felt sorry for him ; the waiters were so funny, they knew him
and did not know me, so they served us as only French
waiters can serve a man who is supposed to be dining with
another man's wife, — their airs of sympathetic and discreet
comprehension were delightful. It was only too plain that
Jarvis had dined there often, and not alone.
" He was so uncomfortable he did not know what to do
when a boy came up with a fan, — a fiery red creation, — and
said in his best English, ' Pardon, here is ze fan madame haf
dropped ze ozzer evening,' I really pitied him, he was in such
a state of confusion. He stammered out something and tried
to deny all connection with the fan, but the boy persisted,
sure it was madame who had dropped the fan just as she
drove away with monsieur. In my sweetest accents I said,
'Never mind, dear, take the fan, it is such a pretty red it
quite goes with your complexion — for the moment.' You
should have seen the poor fellow's face; from the fan I
should say 'madame' was tall, probably slender, and a
pronounced brunette.
" You ask me if you should marry for money. I did, why
should not you ? If you marry for love you are sure to be
miserable; you may be happy if you many for money, — I
am quite contented. You have been in love, and there is
nothing left but money.
" By the way, there was a young man from Chicago on
the steamer; you may know him, John Ganton, son of the
great packer. He quite distinguished himself by exposing
the tricks of a gang of professional gamblers who were fleecing
Jarvis out of my pin-money. For lack of better material I
amused myself by trying to become acquainted with the
young ogre, but his stolidity was proof against all my blan
dishments. He struck me as a singular mixture of sagacity
and animal strength, with a highly polished, intellectual
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veneer which might be easily scratched, — an instance of the
reincarnation of sweaty forefathers in perfumed sons, only
that he does not quite answer that description. He is inter
esting, but hopelessly unresponsive. I tried to make some
thing of him, but he lacked pliability — a bit of as stubborn
material as I have run across in the male line for many a
year. There was no one else on board worth a dozen words,
— a little fat Austrian Ambassador and the gambler. I rather
liked the gambler, and might have done something with him
if I had not wasted all my energies on your young pork-
packer. If he ever returns to Chicago, cultivate him; he is
worth while, if only as a — very literally — piece de resistance
upon which to whet the edge of your appetite.
" Marry, cherie, marry, and be free to do as you please, —
then stagnate with ennui because everything worth doing
has been done, and done incomparably better ages ago."
How singular Gertrude Townsend should have met the
brother of Will Ganton, the student and dreamer; how much
more singular that the young man should occasion that clever
woman of the world a second thought, — truly there was some
thing aggressive, something irrepressible, in the blood of old
John Ganton!
Mrs. Jack had exhausted all her ingenuity in endeavoring
to further the marriage upon which she had set her heart, but
since the engagement no progress had been made so far as
she could see. Her intimate friends began to inquire, with
a solicitude that barely disguised their impertinent curiosity,
if any date had been set.
" ' Don't play a fish too long,' is a good angler's motto,"
Carrie Trelway called out in her loud clear voice one after
noon on the veranda of the Golf Club.
The three or four women sitting about the round-topped
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Blood Will Tell
table smiled at the audacity of the remark, and Mrs. Jack's
face turned crimson. But what could she say ? What could
any one say to Carrie Trelway, who invited an angry retort
only that she might cut deeper still ?
Will Ganton was dining with them as usual, just as he
had dined with them twenty times in the past two months,
just as he might dine with them for an indefinite period to
come unless something were done to bring matters to an issue.
During the afternoon May and he had taken a long walk,
and during the dinner both were preoccupied to such an
extent that conversation was maintained with an effort.
Mrs. Jack did not know what it meant, but she determined
to find out that night. Delaney sat back in his chair and
looked from the one to the other quizzically; but to his sur
prise he received no answering glance from May Keating.
Something 's up this time, sure, he thought to himself ; not a
quarrel, but something really serious.
After dinner he ventured to ask in a friendly way:
"What's the matter now, May?"
"Nothing you can help, Larry," she answered in a low
voice.
"Serious?"
"Possibly," she hesitated a moment, to continue impul
sively, " What sort of a wife would I make a poor man ? "
Delaney laughed. "I can't conceive such a contingency;
no need of puzzling my brain to answer that conundrum."
" Well, it is one which must be answered," she said quietly.
" What under the sun do you mean, May ? " He looked
at her in surprise, but the light was too dim to let him catch
the expression of her features.
"I mean just what I say. It is for me to make up my
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mind whether I could or should marry a poor man. The
prospect is not so terrifying as that of a rich husband," she
added; "it has its advantages."
"No doubt," he answered lightly. "However, if you are
considering poverty-stricken candidates, I might offer myself
with some degree of assurance. But Will Ganton is not a
poor man."
" He has practically nothing, — a small interest in the
company and his salary."
" But he is the son of John Ganton and the future head of
Ganton & Co."
" If his father sees fit to make him."
"But he will."
" That depends — I must have caught the phrase from
Will."
"Upon what?"
"Upon whether he marries me."
Larry Delaney could only express his surprise by a long
in-drawn whistle.
"Do not say anything to Sally, or any one else," she
hastened to add ; " it would do no good. The situation is as
it is, and I must decide for myself."
"Well, all I can say, May, is, go slow," he urged with
friendly solicitude.
"On the contrary, I am more than half inclined to go
ahead full speed." With that she rose and walked away,
leaving Delaney to finish his cigar by himself.
"We were just talking about you," Carrie Trelway
called out boldly as May Keating joined the group of young
women.
" I thought so, and therefore came over in self-defence."
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Blood Will Tell
" We were wondering when you and Will Ganton were to
be married," the young woman continued loudly.
" I do not see how that concerns you, Carrie," May Keat
ing said quietly; it was useless to take offence.
" If you expect me to be at the wedding you must fix the
day not later than November; in December Billy and I sail
for Europe."
" I should miss you and Billy — so much." The tone in
which the last two words were uttered made the little group
of young women laugh. One of them remarked afterward :
" May is enough for Carrie Trelway ; she has a quiet way
that is positively delicious."
To Mrs. Jack's acute ear it seemed as if every one at the
Club was discussing a single question, When would May
Keating and Will Ganton be married ? — and discussing it
in a manner that implied they might not be married at all.
She determined to come to an understanding with May that
very night; the matter had dragged too long.
When they arrived home Mrs. Jack paused just long
enough to slip into a light wrapper before going to her sister's
room. She found May sitting by the window in the dark.
She had not even removed her hat.
" What are you doing here in the dark ? Why don't you
take off your hat?" Mrs. Jack asked impatiently.
Without answering, May drew the shades, turned on one
of the side lights, went to the dressing-table, and began
removing her hat; she knew what was on her sister's mind,
and simply waited.
" I want to have a talk with you, May." Mrs. Jack's tone
betrayed her irritation. "It is time something definite was
decided with Will. When are you going to marry him ? "
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May Keating lightly touched her hair with her fingers to
remove the impression left by the hat, turned, and sat down
facing her sister.
"We talked about it this afternoon, and," she continued
slowly, as if coming then and there to a decision, " I think I
shall marry him very soon."
"I am glad to hear that," said Mrs. Jack with a sigh of
relief; "we were beginning to be the laughing-stock of the
town."
" Suppose Will Ganton had n't a penny in the world but
his salary, would you want me to marry him, Sally ? "
The tone in which the question was put startled Mrs.
Jack, but she exclaimed, "How absurd! He will be the
richest young man in the city some day."
" But suppose his father should not leave him a penny —
what then ? "
"I don't understand you, May," Mrs. Jack said, looking
at her sister anxiously. " What do you mean ? "
" I mean that if Will Ganton marries me his father threat
ens to cut him off without a penny."
For a moment Mrs. Jack could not utter a word, and it
was several seconds before she fully comprehended what her
sister had said. Then the blood rushed into her cheeks and
her eyes blazed with fury.
"So that is the secret of all this delay, and that is why
old mother Ganton has not been to see us again. John
Ganton does not think a daughter of Jem Keating is good
enough for his precious son, — the old brute, I '11 show him.
As if he could pick and choose, — just a common butcher,
a pig-sticker who can't write ten words without misspelling
half of them. Oh, I know the old brute; I 've heard father
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tell about his rascality. They were great friends once, and
just because dad got the better of him in a deal years ago
the old brute never forgot it. I knew he did not like us,
but I '11 show him he can't lord it over us, — the old butcher."
Mrs. Jack had risen from her seat and was walking rapidly
to and fro with her small plump hands clenched and her
features distorted by passion.
May knew that these fits of temper subsided after a little
if fuel were not added to the flame, so she sat still and waited
for her sister to recover her reason. A disagreeable feeling
came over the younger girl as she heard the rough and
brutal language roll from her sister's lips ; could it be possible
so coarse a strain permeated both their natures ?
After a time the storm of wrath abated, and Mrs. Jack
sank down on the couch, exclaiming:
"Well, why don't you say something! What are you
going to do about it ? What did you say to him ? "
" That if he loved me well enough to lose a fortune for
my sake, I would marry him anyway."
Mrs. Jack looked at her sister in blank amazement.
" May Keating, you 're a fool."
May could not help smiling at her sister's tone of mingled
contempt and dejection.
"That may be, Sally, but I feel more like marrying Will
Ganton than ever before."
"Do you mean to say you will throw yourself away on
that fellow when he has n't a penny ? "
" Did you not come in here to-night with the intention of
urging me to marry 'that fellow,' as you call him, as soon
as possible ? " The query was sharply put.
"Yes; but I supposed - " Mrs. Jack floundered.
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"You supposed that he would inherit the larger share of
his father's fortune, and you intended I should marry him
for his money. I understand perfectly; but now that his
father threatens to cut him off if he marries me, and he is
ready and willing to sacrifice every prospect for my sake,
would you have me throw him over, and by doing so confess
to the world that money was the first and only consideration ?
Could we afford to do that ? "
May spoke deliberately. It was evident she had carefully
weighed her words, and that she had not come to any hasty
conclusion. Mrs. Jack began to feel the position as hope
less. It was useless to argue, for she knew her sister too
well to attempt to move her if her mind were once fixed.
Besides, might not the father relent ? — it was among the
possibilities, and threats of that kind were seldom carried
out. To whom could John Ganton leave his money if not
to Will ? Would it not be a stroke of good policy for May
to marry the young man, and thereby prove to the father
that no mercenary motives entered into the match? Yes;
it was just one of old Ganton's tricks to make sure that no
girl married his son for his money.
All these thoughts flashed through Mrs. Jack's mind as
she sat there looking at her sister and listening to what she
was saying. When May definitely announced her determina
tion to marry Will Ganton in spite of all opposition, she
was surprised to hear her sister acquiesce without further
protest; keen as she was, she could not read all the arguments
that had flitted through Mrs. Jack's active little brain, and
Mrs. Jack did not enlighten her.
The next morning Mrs. Jack went into her husband's
room before he was up, seated herself on the side of the bed,
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and told him all that had passed between her and May the
night before.
Jack Wilton listened drowsily. Mrs. Jack had so many
troubles, so many squabbles and controversies, that he had
long since ceased to take the lively interest in them she
expected him to manifest. He liked May, and could not,
for the life of him, see why John Ganton should object
to Will's marrying her.
" It is n't May, Jack ; it is something else, some old trouble
between the old man and father. I remember hearing about
it years ago. I want you to go to Mr. Ganton and have a
plain talk with him. May is your sister-in-law, and it is
your duty."
By this time Wilton was wide awake. He sat up in bed,
his stiff brown hair standing about his head in such a tangle
as to make him look exceedingly comical.
"The deuce you do!" he exclaimed. "Why, Sally, I
can't go to see John Ganton. He would order me out of his
office."
" It is your duty to go, Jack," Mrs. Jack insisted firmly.
"You like May, don't you?"
" Of course I do. She is a bully good girl, and would
make any man a fine wife."
"That is just what you must tell Mr. Ganton.'
" Why, Sally, I would feel like a fool to go to John Ganton
and sing May's praises. What good would that do so long
as he does n't object to her personally ? "
"You must find out what his objections are. He says
he will not permit his son to marry your sister-in-law, — that
concerns you."
Perhaps it was too early in the morning — nearly noon —
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and he was not fully awake, but Wilton could not get it
through his head how John Ganton's quarrel with Jem
Keating years before concerned him. Still there was his
wife calmly seated on the side of the bed arguing that it did ;
and there was May, whom he liked immensely, and whose
future happiness was involved. So at last, after many
protestations, he promised to go and see John Ganton that
day, and ask him his reasons for opposing the prospective
union. Mrs. Jack thereupon hied herself off in triumph.
All the time he was dressing the matter weighed heavily
upon Jack Wilton, and the more he thought about it the
less he liked it. Twice he cut himself with his razor, and he
remained so long in his bath that Mrs. Jack rapped loudly
at the door to find out what he was doing and why he did not
come down to breakfast. When he did come down his
face wore such a sober expression the Major on seeing him
called out:
"Why, papa, what 's ze matter wiz 'oo? 'Oo look sick."
"I 'm not sick. I 'm all right, Major."
"Well, 'oo look sick, anyway."
The Major proceeded to feel his papa's pulse and listen
to his heart and tap his lungs precisely as the doctor did to
him when he was sick. The Major loved to play doctor,
and nearly everybody in the house submitted patiently to
exhaustive examinations, often prolonged beyond the en
durance of all except Jack and May, who never tired of the
little fellow's persistence.
It was with misgivings Jack Wilton walked north in
La Salle Street to the great building wherein Ganton & Co.
had their offices. He knew John Ganton, not very well,
but well enough to stand in considerable awe of the rough
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Blood Will Tell
old man. His father and Ganton had been more or less
intimately associated in several enterprises, and had always
remained good friends ; but while Jack Wilton had inherited
his father's wealth and enough sagacity to keep it well
invested, he had not inherited any of his father's devotion
to business; therefore he and John Ganton met only occa
sionally.
He had never been in the office of Ganton & Co., and he
felt very much out of place as he stood beside the railing
which marked off a narrow space near the door, where in
truders were temporarily confined under the supervision of
an alert and officious young fellow of sixteen or seventeen,
who asked in a sharp, quick tone, " Who do you wish to see ? "
When Wilton said almost deferentially that he wished
to see Mr. Ganton, the young fellow eyed him still more
critically, as if he knew the caller had no real business with
Ganton & Co. However, he took in the slip of paper on
which Wilton wrote his name and soon brought back word
that Mr. Ganton would be at liberty in a moment or two.
When Wilton entered the small private office of John
Ganton, the latter dropped a bundle of telegrams he held
in his hand and greeted his visitor cordially.
" Some time since I 've seen you, Wilton. You don't
come here as often as your father did."
"No; in fact, this is the first time, Mr. Ganton."
Jack did not feel at all at ease, and would have liked it better
if the old man had been less cordial. He knew what he had
to say would not be taken kindly, and he was shocked at
John Ganton's appearance. Once the personification of
health and strength, his face was now drawn and yellow, and
there were lines about the mouth which could only come
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from pain or suffering of some secret nature. Doubtless
there was something in the young man's face that betrayed
his thoughts, for John Ganton, with the sharp intuition of
the sick, asked querulously:
" What 's the matter ? Why do you look at me that way ?
Do you think I look sick ? "
" Why, I — that is, Mr. Ganton, I have not seen you for
some time — "
"And you think me changed? Is that it?" This time
there was a trace of anxiety.
"I suppose we all change more or less," Wilton answered
evasively ; " you must find me — "
"You 're all right; there 's nothing the matter with you.
It 's my stomick, John." As he called Wilton
by his first name there was something almost pathetic in
the old man's accent. " It 's my stomick. I 'm as yellow as
lemon peel. I suppose I 'm bilious."
"You ought to take a rest, Mr. Ganton."
"No; that wouldn't do any good. I don't propose to
lay down and die like a sick horse. Work 's the best medicine
I know of, — work, with a dose of castor oil now and then."
"I sincerely hope you will be better soon." Wilton
paused, and as John Ganton waited for him to go on, con
tinued abruptly:
" I came to see you this morning, Mr. Ganton, on a mighty
unpleasant errand. Will is engaged to my wife's sister, May
Keating."
At the mention of the engagement the old man, who had
been sitting hunched forward in his big revolving chair,
stiffened back, and all the yellow of his face disappeared
before the rush of blood that indicated his anger; from
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beneath his bushy eyebrows he looked at Wilton as if he were
more than half disposed to visit his fury upon him.
In as conciliatory a manner as possible Jack continued :
" I am told that you object to the match, and I came to
see — to find out what the trouble is."
The old man's face worked as if he were trying to control
himself; at length he blurted out:
" Who sent you here ? "
Confused by the sudden query, Wilton could only
stammer:
" I came myself, Mr. Ganton, no one — "
"Yes, there did, some one sent you here. You never
came on your own account, John Wilton ; you 've got more
sense than to go about meddling in what does not concern
you."
" But May Keating is my sister-in-law. "
" That does n't make her your sister, does it ? " the old
man asked with grim sarcasm. " If she was your sister, that
would be different, but she is not. She is the daughter of
Jem Keating; she has the old man's blood running in her
veins, and rather than have a son of mine tie up to any of
that dirty stock I would see him dead."
John Wilton's face flushed. The old man's language
came home to him through his wife.
" You forget, Mr. Ganton, that I married one of Keating's
daughters."
" No; I don't forget it; and you 're not likely to forget it,
if all I hear is true." The eyes under the bushy eyebrows
snapped viciously, and Wilton felt his heart sink suddenly
as if he had been struck heavily in a vital place. " I don't
mean to hurt your feelings," the old man continued in a
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more kindly tone, as if regretting the words which had slipped
between his lips; "I don't believe all I hear, but blood will
tell, and I don't want any of Jem Keating's mixed with mine.
. That 's all I have to say."
John Wilton had risen from his chair, hat in hand. He,
too, had nothing more to say — what could he say ? How
could he resent the brutal language which had struck home ?
Had he not invited it by his visit, by meddling in matters
which did not concern him ? Above all, was it not
true that people did talk ?
As he turned on his heel and went out without a word,
John Ganton half started from his chair as if to stop him and
make further amends for what he had said, but he sank back,
asking himself what would be the good ? Even his coarse
sensibilities realized that what was said could not be unsaid, —
to try to explain would only make a bad matter worse.
Wilton did not tell his wife all John Ganton had said.
It would have created a scene, and he did not like scenes
with Mrs. Jack. But he could not disguise the unpleasant
truth that Ganton would not permit his son to marry a
daughter of Jem Keating; that much he had to tell his wife,
though he tried in a clumsy way to tell it diplomatically.
Mrs. Jack, however, was not to be deceived; her husband's
embarrassment told her more than his words, and she sus
pected things had been said he was not willing to repeat.
As she listened without a word, her small eyes flashed omi
nously and her round, plump cheeks became red as fire.
Wilton knew the tempest was about to break.
"So," she screamed, "the old brute, the old villain, the
old pig-sticker, thinks we are not good enough for him,
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and sets himself up above Jem Keating, — the old butcher !
There are those who remember when he drove his own cart,
and sold meat on the street, — the old sausage-maker! Now
because he 's rich he thinks he owns the earth; but I '11
show him there are some things he can't do. I '11 show
him — I '11 show him, the old - Mrs. Jack was so
excited that she could not sit still, but walked to and fro with
her small, round fists tightly clenched.
Wilton waited for her anger to subside. At length he
asked in a soft tone:
"What is to be done now, Sally?"
" What is to be done ? " she exclaimed in a fresh burst of
irritation ; " what is to be done ? Why, get rid of his precious
son in some way; show him that we don't care for him and
his money."
" But how ? " urged Wilton, mildly. " Remember every
body knows of the engagement, and May — you must con
sider May, Sally. It won't do to —
" Never you mind, May and I can take care of ourselves.
We are not asking old John Ganton for any favors." At the
same time Mrs. Jack appreciated, even more keenly than her
husband, all the embarrassing features of the situation. What
excuse could be given for breaking the engagement ? Every
body would know it was on account of John Ganton's oppo
sition and his threat to disinherit his son. That was the
worst of it ; people would say her sister was willing to marry
the old man's money, but not his son without the money.
May's chances for the future would be seriously jeoparded;
and mingled with these thoughts there flitted through Mrs.
Jack's scheming little brain notions of revenge on John
Ganton. How could she get even with the old man ? How
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could she pay him back ? It was with a thrill of exultation
that the thought occurred to her how glorious it would be to
defy the old man to his face, by going ahead with the mar
riage! That would exasperate him more than anything
else. She dismissed the thought instantly. Why should
May throw herself away upon Will Ganton if he had no
money ? That would be a fine outcome after all her schem
ing ; why, she would be the laughing-stock of the city !
When she told her sister what she had done, how Jack
had called upon John Ganton, and the result of the interview,
May listened, surprised and silent, and said :
"I am sorry you did it, Sally; it could do no good. You
ought to have spoken to me."
" Well, I did it for the best. I thought Jack might have
some influence. Any way, it 's a family matter, and it was
his duty."
" No ; it is not a family matter, and it was not his duty to
interfere; the objection is not on Jack's account, but on ours.
I dare say Mr. Ganton would be glad to have Will marry
into the Wilton family." The last words were uttered with
a bitter ring, which did not escape Mrs. Jack, and she
answered with irritation:
" That may be ; but John Ganton need not hold his head
so high above us. He 's no better than father."
"Possibly not half so good," May Keating responded
slowly; "but he has been successful, and success covers a
greater multitude of sins than charity."
"Well, how are you going to get rid of the young man,
May ? " her sister asked suddenly. May Keating looked at
Mrs. Jack's troubled face for a moment or two with a quiz
zical look in her dark blue eyes, and replied deliberately:
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Blood Will Tell
"I don't intend to get rid of him."
Mrs. Jack looked up in amazement. "You don't mean
to say, May Keating, that you really intend to marry him
without a penny ? "
"Yes; that is just what I mean to say, Sally. I have
thought it all over, and it is the only decent thing to do. We
have staked our all," she continued more bitterly, " and must
play the game out. I cannot quite bring myself to tell him
I accepted him only for his money. The only doubt I have
is whether I should permit him to make the sacrifice, —
whether I should not say no, for his own sake."
"Of course you should," Mrs. Jack interrupted eagerly,
catching at the suggestion as a possible line of argument
which might swerve her sister's determination; "it is not
right to permit him to give up his prospects."
May Keating smiled sadly. She understood only too
well the selfish thoughts underlying Mrs. Jack's sudden
solicitude for Will Ganton ; she knew that if her sister could
then and there subject John Ganton and every member of
his family to the tortures of the damned, she would take a
more than Satanic pleasure in doing it.
"No, Sally, we have gone too far; if Will Ganton wishes
it I shall marry him, and take my chances on bringing the
father around later. If I really thought I should be the cause
of his being cut off I would drop him for his own sake, — I
like him well enough for that. But there 's many a slip
'twixt the threat and the whip."
Mrs. Jack looked at her sister inquiringly. She could
not quite make out what was passing in May's mind; how
ever, since she was determined to go ahead regardlessly,
there was nothing to be done but make the best of the situa-
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tion, and hope matters might take a more favorable turn.
Perhaps John Ganton would relent, as fathers usually do;
perhaps Will Ganton would do something, and the engage
ment might be broken for good cause; perhaps —
"Jack said John Ganton was not looking well," she
exclaimed, as if an idea had suddenly struck her.
Again a faint smile hovered about May Keating's firm
mouth; it was not difficult to follow the thoughts of her
sister, even if they did take surprising turns.
" Did he ? I am sorry to hear it," she answered indiffer
ently.
"Yes. He said he was looking very bad, — yellow and
drawn. Hasn't Will said anything about his father's health ? "
"Yes, I believe so; I do not remember what, some
trouble with the stomach, — nothing serious apparently."
" No one can tell. Jack says the old man looks very bad ;
why not wait —
"Until the father dies," May interrupted, and continued
ironically, " but you see, Sally, he may live twenty or thirty
years. Besides, I should not know how to suggest such a
course. Perhaps you could arrange it, or Jack might."
Mrs. Jack jumped up, impatient and angry.
" Do as you please, May Keating ; but you may be sorry
in the end. That 's all I have to say," and she started to
leave the room. But May clasped her about the neck, ex
claiming with a sob in her throat :
"Oh, Sally, I am sorry now; sorry I ever met him, sorry
it has all gone so far. But it can't be helped now. I shall
keep my word; besides," she continued, half arguing to her
self, " there is more to him than I thought. I like him better
than I did."
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Blood Will Tell
"But you don't love him, May," her sister interrupted
quickly, "you don't love him."
" No; and yet I like him better than I did at first. Every
man has his faults, and there are worse than Will Ganton
— much worse," she repeated almost to herself. She drew
her sister close to her, " I want you and Jack to understand
if I marry him it is because I think it is the only thing to do,
— there!" Before she coul'd turn away Mrs. Jack gave
her a good hug and kiss ; it was not difficult to turn her im
pulsive heart, and she vowed to herself on the spot that she
and Jack would stand by May through thick and thin.
When Mrs. Jack told Lawrence Delaney of May's deter
mination to marry Will Ganton in spite of the father's oppo
sition, Delaney shook his head doubtfully without saying a
word.
"Well, it can't be helped anyway," said Mrs. Jack im
patiently. " Why do you look so ? "
"The old man is an ugly customer and apt to keep his
word."
" Surely he would n't cut Will off without a cent-."
"If he says he will, he '11 do it."
"That would be too disgraceful." Mrs. Jack could not
bring herself to believe that John Ganton would go quite so
far. He might cut down Will's share in his estate ; that would
be bad enough, — but to cut him off entirely? It did not
seem possible,
"Why can't they wait a while?" Delaney continued
thoughtfully. " I saw the old man on the street this morning.
He looked sick, yellow, and haggard. They say he has been
looking bad lately, and it struck me there must be something
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serious the matter with him. Why not wait ? If anything
should happen -
"That 's just what I have urged," Mrs. Jack interrupted
earnestly. " I have told May to wait, but she won't listen to
reason. She is bent on marrying Will Ganton while his
father is alive, just to show the old brute she does not care
for his money."
Delaney smiled. He admired May Keating's pluck and
determination, but at the same time he thought she was act
ing foolishly.
" Money is too good a friend or too relentless an enemy
to be treated lightly," he commented. " I wish I had more
of it."
At Mrs. Jack's request Delaney tried to convince May it
would be the better part of discretion to wait for a time ; but
without success.
"There is no use talking, Larry," she replied firmly, "my
mind is made up. I was willing to sell myself for his father's
millions, and it is rather more creditable to give myself for
nothing. However, I am not seeking applause. I am going
to marry Will Ganton because — I am. It 's a woman's rea
son, but in this case a good one. I will take my chances."
Delaney looked at the firmly set mouth of the young
woman sitting in front of him, and felt it would be quite idle
to pursue the subject further. At the same time he was
curious, in a friendly way, to know the real motives that
prompted her; he could not bring himself to believe it was
anything like love for Will Ganton.
" I believe you are going to marry him, May, just to spite
his father; to be revenged for the slur upon your own father."
"Possibly I am, but whether I am or not, John Ganton
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Blood Will Tell
and the rest of the world will be convinced that a ' Keating
girl ' ; — there was a ring of scorn in her voice — " can marry
for something besides money." After a pause, she con
tinued in another tone : " Oh, Larry, how sick I am of it all !
What is marriage anyway but a bargain and sale ? People
talk of marrying for love. Is there such a thing ? "
That was too closely in line with Delaney's own philosophy
for him to argue in opposition, but he urged :
"Admitting all that to be true, May, what are the con
siderations which compel you to act so hastily in this matter ?
I cannot see the necessity."
" I can't tell you. I hardly know myself. All I do know
is, that my mind is made up. . . . Now, Larry, let 's not
debate the matter any more. I expect you to help me make
the best of a situation which will have plenty of disagreeable
features; the engagement will be formally announced, and
the date of the wedding fixed, all very soon."
"I don't envy Will Ganton, — at home, I mean," De-
laney hastened to add with a smile.
" That is his lookout ; he has something of his father in
him, and it may be a case of Greek meeting Greek."
Delaney shook his head doubtfully. He knew Will better
than May knew him. While the son had something of the
ugly temper and brute strength of the father, he lacked en
tirely those masterful qualities which made men fear the old
man.
John Ganton said nothing to Will about the conversa
tion with Wilton; he waited. He believed that when Mrs.
Jack and her sister learned that in no circumstances would he
countenance the match they would find a way to break it off.
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Ganton & Co.
"All those girls are after is money," he said to Browning.
" There 's nothing they would like better than to get hold of
some of mine, but they won't — not a cent, Browning, not a
red cent," his voice rising as he repeated the phrase. " I 'm
sorry for Wilton," he continued more mildly, "he 's a well-
meaning fellow, but he got roped in like a steer by that Sally
Keating; they say she leads him a lively dance. It 's in the
blood, Browning; they 're rotten to the core."
Browning said nothing. He knew this talk about Will's
engagement worried John Ganton, and he was sorry for the
old man. Both he and his wife thought Will was making
a mistake. They never entered the social circle wherein
Mrs. Jack shone. Knowing her only by sight and hearsay,
Mrs. Browning had all the prejudice and secret envy of the
woman who is just without the exclusive line. She would
have given anything to be on calling terms with Mrs. Jack,
and since she was not, she lost no opportunity of repeating
and accentuating every bit of gossip she heard. Returning
from one of her numerous clubs one afternoon, she said to
Browning :
" It 's a shame the way Mrs. Jack Wilton carries on with
that Lawrence Delaney! They say he is with her all the
time; dining and driving and sitting about the clubs. It is
scandalous. I don't see how her husband permits it, but
some men are so blind. They say John Wilton is a very nice
man, much too good for her." The good woman ran on in
a torrent of words, her usual manner, and wound up with
the question, " Who is this Delaney, anyway ? "
"A stock-broker. I don't knowT much about him, —
from New York, I believe," Browning replied without look
ing up from his evening paper.
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" They say he 's a sort of an adventurer, and yet no one
knows just who he is. He 's a great friend of Will Ganton's,
is n't he ? "
Browning had no intention of giving his wife any definite
information along that line; she would be altogether too
apt to use it to some one's discomfiture, — quite likely his
own.
"I suppose they meet occasionally at the clubs," he an
swered evasively.
" Well, I heard to-day that this Delaney is little better than
a common gambler, and that Will has lost no end of money
to him, — you ought to know."
The last remark was uttered in tones so pointed that
Browning could not wholly ignore it without the appearance
of concealing something, sq,he answered, with an air of frank
ness which threw his wife off her guard :
'There 's nothing in it except that Will, like most young
fellows nowadays, occasionally takes a flyer in stocks. Some
times he wins, sometimes he loses."
" Is he going to marry Mrs. Jack's sister ? "
"How do I know?"
"Well, you ought to interest yourself if you care any
thing about him, for they say she is worse than her sister.
She had a love affair at Newport two or three summers ago,
but nothing came of it. She wants Will Ganton for his
money. Those Keating girls will stop at nothing. It 's a
shame. You 'd better talk to Will, and tell him plainly what
people say. It might open his eyes."
Browning did talk to Will, not to tell him what people
were saying or to open his eyes in the direction indicated by
Mrs. Browning, but because he honestly thought Will was
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making a great mistake in sacrificing his future by marrying
a scheming girl.
Will listened to all Browning had to say. The talk was
well meant, but it did no good. A stubborn look came over
the young man's face, a look Browning knew only too well
as a weaker reflection of the will of the father.
"I know you mean all right, Browning, but I asked
her to marry me when I thought I would have an interest
in the company some day and be a rich man, and I don't
propose to back out now. If father wants to cut me off,
that is his lookout, — I guess I can take care of myself
somehow. He 's down on her just because he had some
trouble with her father years ago; I don't see the sense
of that."
" He 's down on the daughter because he thinks she may
have inherited some of her father's characteristics," Brown
ing urged, as gently as he could.
"That 's all nonsense, and you know it, Browning."
Browning did not know it — on the contrary he believed
John Ganton was right, — but he could not tell Will that
in so many words.
"I tell you she is the finest girl in the world, Browning,
and much too good for me ; when father comes to know her
he will change his mind."
So that was the direction in which hope lay, that John
Ganton himself would fall under the spell and yield to the
young woman's charms, — well, who could tell ?
Browning did venture to suggest they should wait for a
time, the thought that had occurred to Delaney; but Will
would not listen to it for a moment.
"Father is all right. His stomach is out of order, that
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is all. If he wouid quit taking big doses of castor oil and go
and see a doctor he would be all right in no time."
"I wish he would see a doctor," Browning said earnestly,
" I don't like his looks."
" But he won't. He 's as stubborn as a mule on that
point."
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CHAPTER XVII
JOHN GANTON'S REMORSE
INDEED, John Ganton's condition caused Browning great
anxiety. There were mornings when the old man would
come down " feeling first rate, " as he expressed it, but
his skin never lost the yellow look, and he became thinner.
"I 'm thinning down somewhat," he said; "but that's
all right. I can stand losing a little fat."
He persistently kept his mind on the bright side, and
would not admit he was ill. The inquiries of acquaintances
who were struck by his changed appearance, the solicitude
of friends and business associates, annoyed him so that he
either avoided answering their questions or replied so im
patiently that soon nearly everybody with whom he came in
contact understood how he felt and refrained from asking
about his health. It pleased him greatly if men on meeting
him remarked, "How well you are looking, Mr. Ganton!"
He knew he was not looking well, and he knew they said
it to flatter him, nevertheless he derived satisfaction from
these hollow assurances.
In the street he made an effort to walk with the same
vigor, and at conferences and directors' meetings he en
deavored to suppress every sign of weakness and suffering;
but in his own office it was different. There he yielded to
the lassitude that frequently overcame him. Browning
often found him hunched down in his big chair half dozing,
with his head dropped forward on his breast and his letters
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John Ganton's Remorse
and telegrams before him unread. He aroused himself with
a start, and tried by sudden activity to disguise the fact he
had been half asleep, but one day he said apologetically :
" Did n't sleep very well last night, Browning ; there 's
something wrong with my stomick. I can't eat as I used to ;
nearly everything I eat goes back on me. There 's a sort of
dull ache down here." He put his hand on the right side of
his body just below the ribs.
"It must be your liver, Mr. Ganton."
"Maybe it is, maybe it is," he repeated. "I guess I '11
take a blue-pill, — that '11 fix the liver all right." He bright
ened up at the thought of a medicine he had not tried for a
long time. " I had n't thought of that. I can't eat as I
used to," he repeated almost mechanically.
" Don't you think you ought to see a doctor ? " Brown
ing ventured to suggest again. The old man's face instantly
clouded over and he said curtly:
"I 'm not ready to die just yet."
The suggestion of a doctor acted like a tonic. It braced
him up, and for a time he seemed to fight his ills and pains, —
but only for a time. The dull pain in his right side came
back with increasing frequency, and in spite of all his doses
he could not overcome the discomfort felt after every meal.
Out at the Yards one day he met old Doc Ruggles, the
veterinary surgeon who for a stipulated sum per annum
looked after Ganton & Co.'s horses. Everybody and nearly
every horse in the Yards knew Doc. He was a character; he
went about with his hands stained brown from the mixtures
he used, and with his clothes smelling of horse liniment.
" Doc knows his business," the men were accustomed to
say; " if he can't cure a horse he '11 kill him."
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Ganton & Co.
He took no stock in the more modern methods of the
young graduates of veterinary colleges; Doc had acquired
his knowledge by hard knocks and still harder kicks. Not
infrequently a horse manifested its objection to the bitter
doses and hot irons, and hoofed Doc across the stable, but
that was invariably accepted as a good sign, — the horse
would recover. He had passed through the rough school
of experience, and his only diploma was a supreme confidence
in his own ability. He practised in his shirt sleeves and a
pair of stained and discolored overalls, once blue. If he
did not know what ailed a horse he gave it something that
brought on symptoms he did understand, whereupon he
doctored those symptoms. His method was summed up
in strong doses and big blisters. He administered his
medicines by tying a horse's head to a rafter and squirting
a quart of evil smelling and still more evil tasting liquid down
the poor animal's throat. There was not much variety in
the mixtures, as the same formula seemed to answer for
every equine ill, and there was no fooling or dilly-dallying or
coddling. The horse was expected to take his medicine and
go to work the next morning, and those that did not die over
night usually met Doc's expectations.
John Ganton had known Ruggles for more than thirty
years, and his confidence in the medical skill of the old
veterinary was measured by Doc's confidence in himself,
— nothing could shake it.
When they met at the Yards on the day referred to, Doc
was grinding a brown powder in an old iron mortar, and did
not look up until Ganton called out:
"Well, Doc, how are all the horses?"
Straightening up, Ruggles was about to reply when he
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John Ganton's Remorse
caught sight of John Ganton's face, and was so shocked he
could not conceal it.
" The horses are all right, Mr. Ganton. A few down with
the epizoo-tic, no more than ordinary. But what 's the
matter with you ? You look sicker 'n any horse I've got
on my hands."
A painful smile spread over John Ganton's yellow features,
as he tried to make light of his condition.
" I 'm all right. It 's my stomick, Doc. I can't eat as
I used to."
" I should say it 's your liver from that complexion of
your'n, — too much bile."
" Do you think that 's it ? " the old man asked eagerly.
"Browning said it must be my liver. Look here, Doc,"
he blurted out, " what 's good for the liver ? "
"Well," Ruggles drawled as he looked the old man over
critically, "if you was a horse I could cure you in about
two shakes of a lamb's tail. What you need is a mixture to
knock that bile out of you, — that 's all you need. I can
fix you up something I take myself, but it won't taste as
sweet as honey; I don't use any sugar-coatin' on my pills."
Doc laughed, for he always said that to the men in the
Yards when he dosed them for their occasional ailments.
" I don't give no baby food that slips down so easy you don't
know it 's there."
"Go ahead, Doc," the old man eagerly replied; "fix
me up something, and if you can bring me around all right
I '11 make it worth your while."
" I '11 send a bottle of stuff around to the office in an
hour. You take a tablespoonful before going to bed and
in the morning soon as you get up, and if you don't feel like
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a new man in a week I '11 take down my sign. It 's bile,
that 's all it is."
Ruggles was so sure of his opinion that John Ganton
felt greatly reassured, and walked off in better spirits than
he had been in for some time.
" He knew just as soon as he looked at me what was the
matter," he said to himself; "that comes of experience. I
wish I had seen Doc before. He 's better than any of
those fellows down town who charge ten dollars for just
looking at a man, and then don't know what 's the matter
more 'n half the time."
At night when John Ganton swallowed the first table-
spoonful of the rankly bitter mixture, his face betrayed his
disgust.
"What are you taking now, John?" his wife timidly
asked.
"Was out at the Yards this afternoon, and Ruggles —
you remember Doc Ruggles ? — said all I needed was some
thing for my liver, so he gave me this medicine."
"Why, he is only a horse doctor. Ain't you afraid?"
" I 'd as soon trust him as any one. This is something
he takes himself when his liver is out of order. Ugh! but
it 's bitter. You have n't a lump of sugar, have you ? "
"No, but I can run down and get you one in a minute."
When she returned Ganton was sitting on the edge of the
bed, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. He
looked so sick as he sat there half undressed she was
alarmed.
"Oh, John!" she exclaimed, "I wish you would see a
doctor."
"No, no," he answered impatiently; "I don't want no
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John Ganton's Remorse
doctor. I '11 come out all right. It 's my liver, — that 's
all." As he spoke he passed his hand slowly across the pit
of his stomach, as if in pain.
" Do you feel bad ? " she anxiously inquired.
" There is a sort of a dull ache around here, and now and
then a shooting pain. I never had anything like it before,
Maria, and it hangs on so." There was a helpless ring to his
voice that was pathetic. His wife had never before seen
him sick for more than a day or two, and then only with some
insignificant ailment which readily yielded to his heroic
treatment. Now, however, he seemed to suffer nearly all
the time, and she could see that so far from improving from
week to week, he got worse; his skin became more yellow,
his features more drawn, he lost flesh; more and more
frequently he sat down at the table and suddenly pushed
his plate to one side, saying, "I can't eat anything, Maria,
my appetite 's gone all at once." At other times when he
did eat, the food distressed him, and he sometimes lay
down for half an hour or more, to complain of "wind on
my stomick, and shooting pains."
For a long time he impatiently rejected every offer on her
part to try to do something to relieve him, but of late he had
submitted to the application of a hot-water bag to the pit
of his stomach when the pains were very severe. That
helped ; under the gentle radiation of the heat the disagree
able sensations subsided, and often he fell asleep, to awake
much refreshed. When down town, he could not rest
after luncheon, and there was no one to get him a hot -water
bag, so he was obliged to get along as best he could. He
soon learned that if he ate little luncheon he could get through
the afternoon very well; some days he got very hungry, but
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either ate nothing at all or drank only a glass of milk, which
did not distress him so much as solid food.
He took Ruggles's bitter brown mixture faithfully as
directed, and strange to say, felt much better. Each time
he took the awful dose he experienced the satisfaction of a
man who deals his foe a vigorous and telling blow. Like
most men, he had faith in mixtures in proportion to their
disagreeable qualities, treating disease as if it were some
thing to be reached only by sledge-hammer shocks.
For some time he ate better, his skin regained some of its
normal color, his eye became brighter, and he felt, as he
expressed it, more like himself. Browning was quick to
notice the improvement, and congratulated him.
"That 's right, Browning; I have n't felt so well in a long
time. Would you like to know who did it ? " He looked at
Browning with a cunning twinkle in his gray eyes. "None
of your high-falutin' pill-pedlers down town here; it was
Doc Ruggles out at the Yards. He gave me some medicine
that fixed my liver all right, and I can eat now just about as
well as ever."
"Well, one can never tell, Mr. Ganton. Sometimes a
home-made remedy is just as good as a fancy prescription."
" Better, Browning, — better, I say. A good old-fashioned
dose goes straight to the spot; I would n't give a picayune
for a cart-load of the lollipops they fix up nowadays at the
drug stores. But I tell you it 's bitterer 'n gall," — the
grimace on the old man's features expressed the disagree
able nature of the mixture more eloquently than words.
During the weeks he felt better John Ganton plunged
into business with renewed energy; it was as if he had
been taking a vacation, holding aloof for a time and gather-
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John Ganton's Remorse
ing up his strength. He kept his great office force in a tur
moil; he was active at the Yards, on the Board, and on
'Change; he made his influence felt in each of the great
packing centres, and he even made a trip to Omaha and
Kansas City, and planned large additions to his already
enormous plants at those two points. With something like
his old interest he read the cables and letters from the foreign
representatives, and seemed to know intuitively what was
going on in distant quarters of the globe; he never debated
a moment the answer to be sent, or the instructions to be
given, — it was one of his extraordinary characteristics that
before he had finished reading a letter or even a telegram, the
answer shaped itself in his mind, and it was invariably sent
as first conceived; no one ever caught him sitting with a
letter or a telegram in his hand wondering what reply he
should make. To a business proposition, whether made in
conference or on the street, he always gave a definite answer
on the spot, unless, as often happened, it suited his purpose
to procrastinate. Whatever his course of action, his decision
was immediate and irrevocable. "No man can afford to
change his mind," he often said; "it 's cheaper in the end to
go wrong once in a while than get in the habit of thinking
what 's best to do." All who did business with him had a
wholesome respect for this characteristic; they soon learned
to make him no proposition they were not ready to stand by,
for he never gave them time to withdraw.
"The old man trades so quickly it takes one's breath
away," Range Salter remarked one day after a trying five
minutes, at the end of which he found he had involved the
Union Company in an agreement highly advantageous to
Ganton & Co.
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Ganton &: Co.
He was quite as ready and willing to do business in the
street as in his office; it mattered not. "The time to do
business is all the time, that 's my motto," he said whenever
any one suggested taking a matter up at a more convenient
opportunity. If a man asked for an appointment he invari
ably inquired what was wanted, and nine times out of ten
disposed of the matter on the spot. He was a good waiter
when he wanted to wait ; no one could prolong negotiations
more exasperatingly when he needed time to secure some
advantage.
" He 's the slowest man to come to a decision I ever met,"
a New Yorker once remarked.
" Then you'd better look out, for the chances are he is
moving like a streak of greased lightning behind your back,"
his friend answered.
During the days he was feeling so much better and tak
ing renewed interest in business, he found on his desk one
morning a cable in cipher from John. He noticed it was
sent from London, instead of Liverpool. When translated
it read:
" Italian government about to make large contracts for
meats and canned goods; contract may be secured through
influence of South- Atlantic line; prompt action necessary."
Without pausing to reread the message, he called for
Browning, gave the necessary orders to get the Rome
and Naples representatives at work, dictated a telegram to
Sanford in New York, then, showing Browning the cable,
remarked :
"The young fellow seems to be able to sit up and take
notice; I wonder where he got that tip."
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John Ganton 's Remorse
" MacMasters says he has a long head."
" We may make something of him yet, if he '11 get some
of his fool notions out of his noddle."
Browning said nothing, as he had his own opinion con
cerning the young man. The old man leaned back in his
chair and continued:
"The trouble nowadays, Browning, is boys are educated
too much. Colleges are all right enough in the old country,
where men don't have to work, but they don't go in America.
A new country 's got to have brain and muscle, and boys
must work, and work young, or they will get left at the post.
What good would a college have been in California in '49 or
in Chicago fifty years ago ? Do they need a college in the
Klondike ? I guess not ; they need men and women, not a
lot of sickly students. There is a time for all things, even
learning, but America is not ripe for too much learning.
Another generation or so, and this country will go in for
colleges and universities and learning to beat the band;
just now business is the thing. Ganton & Co. is bigger
than any college, — the fellows we graduate amount to
something."
In his way John Ganton had shrewd notions concerning
the directions in which the energies of a country ought to
be applied; he had no particular antipathy to higher educa
tion in itself, but he thought the time devoted to it in America
mostly wasted; he could not see that it helped in business,
and in the case of his own son he was quite sure university
life had destroyed what little aptitude for practical affairs
the boy had ever had.
The contracts with the Italian government were closed,
largely through the friendly though secret intervention of
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Ganton & Co.
the South- Atlantic Company, which, in turn, profited from
exceedingly favorable transportation agreements. The com
petitors of Ganton & Co. put in lower bids, but their offers
were rejected for one reason or another. " What 's the use
of bidding!" exclaimed the president of the International
Company, angrily; "the old man has a cinch on this foreign
business. I believe he owns every court in Europe."
About half-past five one afternoon, when most of the
office force had gone for the day, John Ganton was still at his
desk, poring over papers and reports and making figures on
a piece of blank paper with a short, stubby pencil. Though
not much of a writer, he was exceedingly quick at figures,
and could run up long columns at a glance, and carry results
in his head so long as he had any use for them. In trans
actions of great magnitude and complexity he therefore
seldom had to refer to memoranda, and always knew what
he was talking about, a trait which gave him a decided
advantage over most men with whom he had dealings, as
they made mistakes where he did not. In addition, he not
only knew all about the business of Ganton & Co., but all
about the business of each of the principal competitors of
Ganton & Co.
At the moment he was engaged in comparing the profits
of the International, the Union, and Borlan Bros. ; the profits
of Ganton & Co. should exceed the earnings of the other
three combined, but under the energetic management of
Allan Borlan the business of Borlan Bros, had so increased
that for the first time the footings did not result so favorably
to Ganton & Co. ; as nearly as he could get at the facts the
profits of the three companies now just about equalled his
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John Ganton's Remorse
own. A frown gathered over his face, and his tightly closed
lips worked in and out mechanically as he ran the stubby
pencil over the figures before him; so absorbed was he that
he did not look up when some one entered his private office,
but simply asked sharply:
"Well, what is it?"
"I called to see you on a matter of business," was the
reply, in a voice that was familiar and yet did not belong to
the office. Swinging about, he was surprised to see George
Borlan.
" Why, Borlan, I thought it was Browning or some of the
boys in the office; sit down, — sit down," he repeated cordially;
as Borlan took a chair and dropped his hat on the floor beside
him, John Ganton continued in a tone which betrayed his
anxiety, and at the same time no little embarrassment, " How
is Allan getting on ? "
George Borlan looked at the old man a moment before
replying, as if on the point of saying something that might
not be pleasant, but if he had such a thought he repressed it.
" No better, Mr. Ganton. The doctors say there is only
one chance, and that is an operation. By lifting a piece of
the skull they may relieve the pressure on the brain, but they
are not sure, they are not sure of anything. He may die,
but we are going to take the chance."
George Borlan could not hide his emotion, his voice
trembled and he rose from his chair, dug his hands into
his pockets, and strode over to the window, where he re
mained several minutes apparently looking out on the
street below.
John Ganton was shuffling the papers on his desk ner
vously, — he did not know what to say.
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Ganton &: Co.
"It's too bad, Borlan," he murmured, "it's too bad.
Maybe he '11 come out all right yet, maybe —
"I did not come to talk about that," George Borlan inter
rupted rather sharply as he turned from the window to his
seat; "though it is Allan's condition which in a way is the
occasion of my being here." He paused a second and John
Ganton waited. " He was the life and soul of our business.
I am tired and sick of it, and would have retired long ago if
Allan had not been coming on. Now that he is no longer
able to take any part in the management of the
business I want to dispose of it. I want to get rid
of it, and I 'm willing to sell the business and good
will for less than it is worth. You once said that if we
ever cared to sell out to let you know. There is a statement
showing our investment here and in Kansas City, the busi
ness and our profits for the last five years. There is our
balance-sheet. We are prepared to guarantee our inventories
and all bills and accounts receivable. Does the matter inter
est you, Mr. Ganton ? "
In business George Borlan was always quick, sharp, and
to the point; he would have made a great trader except that
he did not care a great deal about making money. "He is
too fond of books to make a first-class business man," his
associates often said; but when he put his mind on business
be could accomplish almost as much in a given time as John
Ganton himself.
The old man glanced at the two sheets handed him, and
at the figures on his desk as if to verify the footings; he
pushed all the papers to one side indifferently.
" What do you want for your business, Borlan ? " he asked
as quietly as if he had been purchasing a pair of horses.
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John Ganton's Remorse
" Five million dollars in cash or securities. It does n't
matter which."
" I will give you six millions. Make out your papers
to-morrow, with formal deeds and transfers to follow within
thirty days."
George Borlan looked at the old man in blank astonish
ment. He thought he had not heard aright.
" I said five millions, Mr. Ganton."
" And I said six."
"But — "
" I know what your business is worth, Borlan, better 'n
you do yourself. There are the figures. I was just looking
them over when you came in. I know what you made last
year, and I know what you are doing this year."
"All that was due to Allan."
" Don't you suppose I know that ? " the old man shouted
irritably. " Don't you suppose I keep track of what 's going
on at the Yards ? Take that extra million and spend every
cent of it in trying to get your brother cured."
There was a strange ring to John Ganton's voice as he
uttered the last words. Could it be he looked upon this extra
payment as a sort of atonement for any part he may have
had in the beginning of the strike ? Could it be he felt in
any wise responsible for the rioting and disorder that led up
to the assault ? These thoughts flashed through Borlan's
mind; he had his own convictions, but he had not thought it
possible the coarse fibre of John Ganton responded to any
such reflections and emotions. Yet there was something in
the tone of the old man which made Borlan feel that beneath
the uncouth exterior there might be after all a heart cast in
a better mould.
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Ganton & Co.
After his caller had left the office, John Ganton did not
again look at the paper on his desk; he sat for some time
in his big chair apparently lost in thought, and he was not
thinking of the purchase of the business of Borlan Bros., or
of the extra million of dollars he had given for it. That
transaction was closed and past; Browning would attend
to the details and pay the money as soon as the papers could
be executed. The magnitude of a transaction never affected
him, in fact, he often spent more time on a small deal than on
a large; he would haggle with a waiter over the amount of
his bill, or wait while a newsboy ran across the street to get
four pennies in change for his nickel ; but a purchase involv
ing millions never bothered him a moment.
No ; he was not thinking of business as he sat there alone.
The big office was now deserted by all save the janitor's
assistants, who were emptying the contents of the waste-
paper baskets into large sacks. He was thinking of the young
man who only a few wreeks before had entered that very
office and pleaded with him to stand firm in the impending
strike, who alone had fought the strikers for two weeks, who
had denounced the leaders to their faces, who had done
more than any one else to expose the corruption and dis
honesty of those leaders, and who had fallen victim to the
vengeance of the men he so openly and fearlessly denounced ;
those were the thoughts which haunted John Ganton, and for
the first time since he had taken the mixture fixed up by
Ruggles, his face assumed a sallower hue, and he felt a knife-
like pain shoot through his stomach. He had been feeling
so well, comparatively speaking, that the pain startled him as
a vivid reminder of his former sufferings. When he arose
to go he said to himself, "I must telephone Doc for another
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John Ganton's Remorse
bottle of that mixture, and ask him to make it a leetle
stronger.'
The purchase of Borlan Bros, by Ganton & Co. made
a sensation on the Street and at the Yards; it placed the
International and the Union at a still greater disadvantage
in competition with the big company.
" Why did n't you tell us you wanted to sell out, and give
us a chance to buy ? " Range Salter asked in a disappointed
tone when he met George Borlan.
" You would have wanted a week to consider the matter,
and a month to go over the inventories and accounts; I
closed with the old man in less than fifteen minutes."
"I '11 wager a penny you had to sell at his price," Range
Salter retorted.
'You are right; I did accept the price he fixed."
"I thought so. When it comes to driving a bargain
Ganton 's a tough customer; you might have done better
if you had taken a little more time and dealt with us."
"I hardly think so. We are entirely satisfied with the
deal."
As Borlan walked away Range Salter muttered to him
self:
" I '11 bet the old man took advantage of the condition of
Allan Borlan and got the business for nothing, — ' t was too
good a chance to lose."
There were rumors that all the big companies were about
to get together in one combination, that competition would
be stifled, and the prices of meat and all other products of the
Yards materially advanced. Such a consolidation had been
frequently suggested. Clever promoters from New York
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Ganton &: Co.
had called on John Ganton a number of times to discuss the
matter, but he received them with scant courtesy, and
listened impatiently to what they had to say. The presi
dent of the bank in which he was the largest stockholder
had tried several times to persuade him a big combination
would be to his advantage, but he responded curtly : " I can't
see it that way. We are getting all the business we want,
and when we want more, we '11 reach out for it."
Combinations and consolidations were in the air, and his
associates could not understand his opposition to the tendency
of the hour, quick as he was to approve pools, price agree
ments, trade arrangements, and ever}7 device known which
would have the effect of regulating supply and keeping up
prices. But it was charged more or less openly that the
salesmen and managers of Ganton & Co. did not always
faithfully observe these agreements, that they were kept
when the old man wanted them kept, and broken when his
attention was conveniently bestowed elsewhere; Ganton &
Co. had the reputation of never losing any business by
keeping faith with a competitor
He could see no reason why he should merge his individu
ality in a large combination, even though he were placed at
the head. That meant nothing to him, as he was the head
of the packing industry anyway; no one disputed his su
premacy. If a competitor wanted to sell out at a price, that
was another matter, he would buy; but as for taking in a
lot of stockholders and directors and officers for whom he
had no use, the suggestion did not appeal to him ; he was too
fond of running his own business to suit himself to tolerate
the intervention of outsiders. The corporate organization of
Ganton & Co. was hardly more than nominal, just sufficient
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John Ganton's Remorse
to comply with the law ; with the exception of Browning and
Will, the directors were clerks in the office, and the board
met only to pass such formal resolutions as were necessary
to carry out John Ganton's personal wishes.
" When I get so old I can 't run this business myself
I '11 get out and make room for others, but not before," the
old man said to the assistant of a great New York banker,
who was vainly trying to persuade him that a consolidation
would take part of the load off his shoulders.
' Trusts are all right enough down East, where you fellows
get down at ten in the morning and quit at one on the days
you 're not playing golf. It takes a lot of you to do the work
of one man, and the bigger the combination the more holidays
you have. Things are different out here, where we 're not
looking for holidays; I don't need no rest; and when I get
ready to sell out I '11 let you know."
It was seldom he expressed himself at such length, but
on this occasion his caller represented a house of so much
importance in the financial world, that he could not very well
avoid the interview; besides, it flattered the old man to think
the great men of Wall Street should send their trusted lieu
tenants to Chicago to see if it were not possible to organize a
gigantic packing corporation, with him at the head.
A few weeks later two specialists came on from New York
to perform the operation on Allan Borlan. The case was
baffling because there was no outward sign of the injury, yet it
was of vital importance to know precisely where to open the
skull. At length, after days of observations and tests, the
great man to whom was intrusted the responsibility of saying
where and when to operate placed his finger upon a certain
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Ganton & Co.
spot a little above and behind the ear, and said in a tone of
conviction :
"There, the seat of the trouble is there, within a space
easily covered by a half-dollar."
He proved to be right, for when they trepanned the skull
at that point and removed the pressure a marvellous change
occurred
Even while partially under the influence of the anaesthetic
the features of the sick man lost the expression of vacuity and
indifference; they became set and firm. The lines about
the mouth hardened, the lips moved, and as the effects of
the ether disappeared, Allan Borlan uttered in the tone of a
man threatened by some great danger, the one word
"Ballard!"
"He saw the man who struck him," the great specialist
remarked in a low voice, and those about the table listened
intently, but Borlan's eyes closed, and he relapsed into uncon
sciousness.
Days passed before he was strong enough to give an
account of the events of the night he was assaulted, but he
slowly recovered his strength and all his faculties.
He had caught a glimpse of his assailant as the man
darted out from the shadow of one of the stables. It was
Ballard. But when they sought to arrest him he had disap
peared. Months afterwards it was reported he had been
killed in a brawl somewhere in the great Northwest, where
men so often lose their lives in trying to lose themselves.
[302]
CHAPTER XVIII
FATHER AND SON
BEYOND question John Ganton was a sick man. In
two weeks he had grown so much worse, had become so
yellow and haggard, that his more intimate associates
ceased to comment on his appearance one way or the other.
That was a bad sign; he had gone through the three stages
of human sympathy : the first, when those about him noticed
signs of ill-health and inquired sympathetically how he felt;
the second, when they endeavored to cheer him up and dis
guise the progress of the disease by telling him how much
better he was looking; and the third, when his appearance was
such that idle words were useless, and even Browning re
mained silent.
In spite of all this, in spite of the dull ache which never
left his side and of the excruciating pains which now and
then doubled him up in agony, in spite of the distress which
nearly all food gave him, in spite of unmistakable outward
and inward signs of grave trouble of some kind, with indom
itable will John Ganton persuaded himself that it was only
some trouble with stomach and liver, which would right
itself in time. In his long and hard life he had had too many
attacks of biliousness and of indigestion, due to bolting poor
food half cooked, to worry over similar symptoms now.
Heroic doses of castor oil and blue-pills had always brought
him around, and he would come out all right now, he kept
saying to himself.
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Ganton & Co.
He had tried another bottle of Ruggles's mixture, more
bitter and worse smelling, if anything, than the first. He
had taken double doses, and again for a few days he felt
better. The feeling of relief confirmed him in the conviction
it was his liver which needed " stirring up," but this time the
improvement did not last. The pains came back sharper
than ever, he lost flesh, his clothes hung loosely on his big
frame., his cheeks were thin and sallow, his gray eyes, so keen
and piercing, became dull and leaden. ^Yhen by himself
he sat and stared at his hands, first at one and then at the
other. He could not understand why they should be so thin
and so bad in color.
He had always been in the habit of walking a great deal,
considering a carriage effeminate ; but now he was driven to
and from his office. Even when he attended a directors'
meeting or a conference more than a block or two away, he
called a cab.
No one dared talk with him about his condition. At
home he was so morose and silent that if his wife merely
asked him how he felt he answered so irritably that she soon
ceased to say a word. But her eyes, half filled with tears,
followed him as he moved slowly and painfully about the
house; she knew he was sick, though she did not realize how
sick he was so clearly as those who saw him less often. Will's
mind was so preoccupied with his own affairs and with the
pending interview, — an interview he had postponed from
week to week, hoping a favorable opportunity would present
itself, — that he had not noticed his father's condition par
ticularly. He knew his father was not well, but supposed,
of course, he would get better.
Browning, more clearly than any one, appreciated the
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serious nature of the ailment. He knew that there was
something wrong; something that no ordinary remedies
could reach. He could see that the trouble was progressing
rapidly, and that unless checked the result would certainly
be fatal. He even went so far as to talk with his own family
physician, a good, level-headed practitioner of the old school,
but not a brilliant man. Browning described every symptom
he could recall, and had the doctor drop in the office one day
so he might catch a glimpse of the old man without the latter
suspecting the presence of a physician.
"It is the liver," the doctor said emphatically, as
John Ganton passed slowly by Browning's desk to his
private office. "Nothing but an examination can disclose
just what the trouble is. It may be only a bad case of
jaundice with acute indigestion; but he ought to consult a
physician."
Browning felt relieved to hear it might be only jaundice
after all, — as Ruggles out at the Yards asserted, — but he
asked :
" If it 's jaundice why does n't he get better ? He has
taken no end of medicines for his liver."
"Too many, perhaps. It takes time to cure jaundice.
We have to get at the seat of the trouble, and ordinary liver
pills may do more harm than good."
" Then you don't consider his condition alarming, doctor?"
Browning inquired anxiously.
" Not necessarily. At the same time if I had his color I
should lose no time in doing something for myself."
Browning ventured to tell the sick man what he had
done and what the doctor had said. He listened in silence,
and when Browning had concluded, instead of the outburst
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of anger which his faithful manager more than half expected,
simply remarked,
"Perhaps he's right, Browning; that's just what Doc
Ruggles says; it's my liver and stomick."
"But won 't you go and see a physician, Mr. Ganton ? "
Browning asked earnestly.
" What 's the use, Browning, what 's the use ? Your
man 's as good as any, and he says it 's my liver and stomick,
and that 's what Doc Ruggles says. They don't any of
them know much of anything."
The old man, as he sat there leaning forward in his big
chair, his left hand resting upon his stomach as if to quiet
the pain which hardly ever left him now, looked so thin and
yellow and sick that Browning felt the tears spring to his
eyes. He was as attached to John Ganton as a faithful dog
to his harsh but not unkind master. Moved by the sym
pathy he felt, he ventured to say:
" Mr. Ganton, you are a sick man, sicker than you realize.
For weeks you have been getting worse and worse. I have
watched you, and everybody in the office has seen the change.
Unless you do something for yourself it will not be long
before you won't be able to come down at all, and then what
would we all do ? What would become of the business ? "
The words were out before Browning paused to think.
At the suggestion that he would not be able to come down
to the office, that he would not be able to direct the affairs
of Ganton & Co. as he had always done, the old man straight
ened back in his chair and looked at Browning so strangely
that the latter was confused, and stammered:
" I do not mean, Mr. Ganton that — that —
"I know what you mean, Browning," the old man said
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slowly; "I know what you mean, and I guess you 're right.
If this pain don't let up soon it will get the better of me, sure.
It is hard work to move about as it is. You say the boys in
the office notice it, Browning ? "
"They cannot help seeing you are not well. Of course
they don't —
"I know, I know," he interrupted hurriedly. "If I
don't feel better in a day or two I will go and see your doctor.
He 's as good as any, I guess. He says it 's my liver and
stomick, and that 's just what Doc Ruggles says."
It was pathetic, the old man's distrust of physicians
and his faith in the horse doctor at the Yards; but all his
life he had looked upon doctors as fit only for the imaginary
complaints of old women. He did not believe in their
nostrums; as for surgery, he often said he would never let
them "stick him like a pig," carrying his prejudice so far
that it was next to impossible to get him to contribute toward
the erection or maintenance of any hospital, though in his
own way he was liberal in his contributions to public institu
tions. This prejudice had its origin in the fact that his
mother had died after an operation when he was a child,
and he had always heard the neighbors say that the doctors
had killed her. Just what ailed her, and just what the
operation was, he never understood, only that she had gone
to the hospital and after a few weeks had died. The mystery
surrounding it all made so great an impression on his childish
mind that all his life long he never passed a hospital without
involuntarily looking at the great walls, the big doors, the
driveway for the ambulances and undertakers' wagons, and
wondering whether any one was being cut up and killed
inside. Considering that his own daily life was spent
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amidst blood and slaughter, and remembering his utter
ignorance of surgery and the wonders it accomplishes,
these notions were not so very queer.
After Browning left him he tried to work, to look over the
papers on his desk; but he could not rid himself of the
thought that it might be true that in a few weeks or months
he would not be sitting at that desk, but would be in his bed
a sick and dying man, — pshaw ! how absurd for him to
think of dying ! Why, he had just turned sixty, in the prime
of life, and was perfectly well up to a month or so ago.
When did the trouble begin ? he asked himself, and tried to
think. Was it before the strike or after? It was before,
for he could remember several times during the spring his
stomach had troubled him a little after eating, but that was
just " wind on the stomick," he said to himself, that did n't
amount to anything. " I was all right up to the time of the
strike, and I 've been getting worse since." He looked at his
hands, turning them over slowly. "How thin and yellow
they are ! " he muttered, " and they ain't stronger 'n a baby's.'
His thoughts turned to the great business he had built up.
What would become of that if anything happened to him ?
Who would take his place ? The possibility of the great
organization disintegrating and falling prey to the rapacity
of his competitors embittered him, and he gritted his teeth
together in the determination to live and "fool them all
yet." But those pains, — how they did come and go! He
pressed his hand upon his right side and leaned forward,
beads of sweat starting out upon his forehead. Would they
never cease? would nothing reach them? Yes; he must
see a doctor, and that, too, right soon if he did not get better.
There was always the hope of being better the next day.
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He had no time to be ill, and he could not afford to die.
The thought of death terrified him, — strangely enough, for
he \vas no coward, and had faced dangers and death in many
forms without flinching. Yet to think of dying inch by
inch, day by day, to see health and strength and life slipping
away from week to week, that filled him with fear and dread ;
he could not stand it.
He fumbled with the papers before him, but when, an
hour later, Browning asked him concerning certain telegrams,
he replied that he had not read them.
"There is a letter from John," Browning said.
" Is there ? " he asked listlessly. " I will come to it." He
picked up a bunch of telegrams, but after reading two or
three, he dropped them and shuffled through the papers for
the letter; just why he should drop the more important
telegrams to read the letter he could not say, but it was
seldom the office received any letter from John Ganton, and
when he did write it was always curtly and to the point
regarding some matter of importance; his father had learned
to rely upon these brief, business-like letters for accurate
information concerning much of their foreign business.
When found at last the letter in question simply said:
" I would suggest a change in Vienna, as the office there
has lost several important contracts through lack of diligence.
Schiffers at Berlin would do better at Vienna; he is an
Austrian by birth and has a valuable acquaintance. To
secure the Austrian business a representative should be kept
at Buda-Pesth, a man who can entertain and make friends."
That was all; the letters were invariably addressed to
Ganton & Co., and were formally signed. The young man
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had not written a personal letter to his father since he landed
on the other side.
Something like a smile stole over the old man's features as
he read the short letter. He had known for some time the
Vienna representative was inefficient, but he had not been
able to place his hand on just the man for the place. He
had never thought of Schiffers, — the very man, educated,
polished, tactful, secretive. He had done well at Berlin,
but the Hamburg office could take care of Berlin for a time,
and Schiffers could go to Vienna. The idea of a man at Buda-
Pesth had never occurred to him, but it was just the scheme,
considering the jealousy which existed between the two
capitals. It required less than five minutes to give Brown
ing instructions to make the changes.
" John seems to have a pretty clear head on his shoulders,"
the latter remarked.
" He keeps his eyes and ears open, that 's sure," John
Ganton replied; "for a young fellow who made so poor a
start he 's doing very well."
When Browning had gone, the old man found himself at
last comparing his two sons. As he sat there thinking, the
reports of Will's engagement to May Keating occurred to
him, and an ugly frown gathered on his forehead. He had
said nothing, he was waiting for Will to speak, — but if the
boy should marry that girl! He clenched his bony fist,
and a vindictive look came into his gray eyes; on that point
he was relentless.
On Sunday morning John Ganton, for the first time in
his life so far as he could remember, remained in bed. When
he tried to get up about seven o'clock he felt so sick at his
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Father and Son
stomach he was obliged to lie down again immediately.
No one knew he felt so sick, for he made no complaint, and
did not so much as groan as he lay flat on his back in the
effort to conquer the nausea. His wife, an early riser like
himself, was already below stairs. He was alone; ashamed
of his weakness, he once more tried to sit up, for a moment
sitting on the side of the bed bent forward with his elbows on
his knees. The effort was unavailing, the feeling of nausea
overcame him.
The whiteness of the pillow made his face look yellower
and more haggard than ever. Where his night-dress was
unbuttoned at the throat it could be seen that beneath the
coarse sandy hair covering his chest, the skin was of the
same unhealthy hue. The morning was cool, so he pulled
the sheet and a woollen blanket over him, and lay very still, to
see if he could not get over the feeling of sickness, repeating
to himself, "I '11 be all right in a minute; it 's my stomick."
The thought came to him if he took his medicine he might
feel better, so propping himself up on one elbow he reached
for the square black bottle on the stand near the head of the
bed, and without attempting to measure a dose, took a big
swallow. " Ugh ! " he exclaimed, and shut his lips tightly to
gether to keep the mixture down.
"There, I guess I '11 feel better in a minute," he muttered
as he sank down on his back, and such was his faith in the
virtue of the medicine that after a time he did get up and
even went so far as to get to his clothes and attempt to
dress. But again he was forced to get back into bed. The
sharp pains which shot through his right side were like a
knife at his vitals, and in spite of himself he groaned and
pressed both hands on the spot that hurt. It seemed to him
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that there was a sort of lump, a hard place in his side, and
that all the pains and soreness centred there. "I had n't
noticed that before," he said to himself as he felt around
just below the ribs. Then he looked very carefully but
he could not see there was any swelling. He looked first
at one side, then the other; yes, the right side did look a
little fuller, but perhaps it was always that way. He passed
his hand carefully from one side to the other. The soreness
was all on the right side, and beyond any doubt there was a
kind of a lump just below the ribs, — that was curious, what
could it be ? For the moment he forgot his nausea and pains
and sat up in bed to get a better look at his side; but when
he sat up the lump disappeared beneath the ribs, until he
could no longer feel it. Yet when he lay back, it was plain
to the touch, and now that he knew where to look, he could
see a swelling outside. He wondered why he had not noticed
it before. It did not hurt to rub the spot, so the lump was
not very sensitive. He knew enough about lumps and swell
ings in cattle to know it was nothing in the nature of an
abscess or a boil. It must be some sort of a tumor. The
thought worried him, — a tumor has to be removed, or it
grows and grows until it kills. But the very thought of an
operation made him shiver; for an instant he saw the red
streak left by the keen knife as it passed rapidly through the
skin over the swelling, and with his mind's eye he followed
the gush of blood as it ran down the side of his body. It made
his flesh creep, for there was nothing he dreaded or feared
so much as the surgeon's knife ; he hated the sight of trained
nurses in their uniforms walking the streets so coolly and
indifferently, — what did they care whether their patients
lived or died ?
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Father and Son
He lay there so long that his wife came upstairs to see
why he had not joined her at breakfast. When he heard her
footsteps he hastily pulled the clothes over him. He did
not want her to know anything about the lump in his side, and
did not propose that any one should know. Perhaps it was
only a strain or something of the kind, and would go down
in a few days.
" What is the matter, John ? " Mrs. Ganton asked in sur
prise, as she entered the room and found him still in bed.
"Are you sick?"
"No; it 's my stomick. I feel a little sick to my stomick
— I guess I '11 lie still for a while."
Mrs. Ganton looked at him earnestly. She could see the
changes in his appearance during the past few weeks; she
had never seen her big, burly husband sick in bed before, and
it frightened her. She put her thin hand on his forehead to
learn if he had any fever; he did not turn away impatiently,
and she knew from that how sick he felt, for usually he
resented all evidences of sympathy.
" Can you eat anything ? " she inquired softly.
"No; I don't want anything, Maria. My stomick 's
all upset. I '11 feel better in a little while."
"Let me get you a little soda and hot water. That
settles the stomach better than anything I know of." She
waited a second, half expecting him to reject the suggestion
impatiently; but as he said nothing, she trotted downstairs
to get a cup of hot water with a pinch of baking soda
"Your father is not feeling at all well this morning," she
called to Will as she passed by his room.
"He isn't? What's the matter?" and Will bounded
out of bed.
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" He is sick at his stomach. I 'm going after some soda
and water. I wish you would go in and see him."
Without waiting to dress, Will hurried into his father's
room. "What is it, father, what is the matter?" he asked,
in a tone of such hearty sympathy that the old man was
touched.
" It 's nothing, Will, only my stomick 's upset, — that 's
all; I '11 be all right if I keep on my back a while."
Will sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at his
father. He, too, could see the frightful ravages disease had
made in the strong frame, — they were only too plain as the
old man lay there so ill and so weak. He took one of the big,
sallow, bony hands which lay upon the blanket in his own
and pressed it affectionately; but nothing more was said.
When his mother came up with the soda and water, Will
returned to his own room and dressed slowly; this was the
morning he had intended speaking about his engagement,
but how could he do it so long as his father was so much
worse?
Toward noon John Ganton felt better, so much better
that to the surprise of the household he dressed and came
downstairs. The feeling of nausea had gone, and with it the
sharp pains, but there was a queer feeling in his side he could
not describe, a feeling of fulness, a dull heaviness that was
more of an ache than a pain. He could not refrain from
passing his hand over his side from time to time while he was
dressing and even after, to see if the swelling he had noticed
was still there. No; he was not mistaken, it was there, now
that he knew where to look. He could even feel it through
his clothes, and wondered what it was, and how long it had
been there. Yes; he would have to consult a doctor, —
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Father and Son
unless he felt better; there was always the hope of getting
well without calling a doctor. To his dislike of doctors was
now added his dread of the surgeon; he knew they would
want to cut into him, if only to find out what was the
matter.
While he was reading the morning paper his mind kept
wandering from the news to his condition ; a half-column on
the financial page devoted to rumors of more intimate rela
tions between the International and the Union, " made neces
sary by the absorption of Borlan Bros, by Ganton & Co.," as
the papers put it, diverted him for a moment from his own
condition. " So they are getting together," he said to himself,
and smiled grimly. " I thought they 'd be stirred up some;
maybe one of 'em will want to sell some of these days." For
the moment he dropped the paper and reflected upon what
would happen if Ganton & Co. bought up either of its two
great competitors. There would n't be much left then in the
way of competition in either buying or selling, and a very
slight increase of prices would yield, — the figures ran into
the millions, but he required no pencil and paper to arrive
at results.
He knew the Union Company would really like to sell out ;
he knew Range Salter wanted to retire from business. " That
comes from having a wife who wants to mix up in the fool
world ; it 's the ruin of many a good business man ; Salter 's
not half the man he used to be," he had often remarked to
Browning.
A shooting pain reminded him of the place in his side.
What if he should not get well ? What if there should be
something dangerous the matter with him ? What would
happen if — he did not like to think of dying, he would not
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think of it; he was not an old man, there were years of hard
work in him yet.
His head sank forward on his breast. He looked so old
and thin and yellow as he sat there lost in thought.
When Will entered the room a little later he found his
father dozing, the papers in a heap on the floor. He aroused
himself when he heard the door close and Will asked :
" How are you feeling, father ? "
" Better — a good deal better. I guess I '11 be all right
to-morrow."
Will sat down near him and for a few moments nothing
was said. John Ganton knew that WTill was about to speak
of his engagement, for there was something in the constraint
of the young man's manner which betrayed his purpose.
The old man waited, his lips closing tightly together. It was
time they had an understanding, — the thing had gone far
enough.
" I wanted to speak to you about something, father,
but — " and Will hesitated. "But I am afraid you are not
feeling well enough —
"Go on. I'm all right. What is it?" was the curt
response.
Will could not recall just the words he had intended to
use. He felt confused ; and after shifting about in his chair,
at length blurted out :
"Father, I 'm engaged to be married."
Without betraying the slightest surprise, John Ganton
asked slowly, "Who 's the girl ? "
" May Keating." Will felt his heart thump as he watched
his father anxiously. To his surprise there was no such
outburst of anger as he expected.
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" You remember what I said to you" his father repeated in harsher
tones. " If you marry that girl I 'II cut you off without a penny. "
Father and Son
"So I've been told; so I've been told," the old man
repeated. "Well, you remember what I said to you."
'' But, father, you don't mean to say if I marry May Keat
ing, you '11 — you '11 —
Will could not utter the words hovering on his lips, for
he really did not care so much for the money as he did about
the breach with his father. He could not believe his father
would be so vindictive, there being nothing of that element
in his own nature.
" You remember what I said to you," his father repeated
in harsher tones. " If you marry that girl I '11 cut you off
without a penny. I mean what I say, I don't propose to
have any daughter of Jem Keating living on my money, so
if you marry her you '11 have to earn your own."
" But, father — "
" You need n't talk any more about it; you can make your
own bed and lie on it. But if she makes such a fool of you
as her sister has made of John Wilton, you may be sorry when
it 's too late."
Will's face flushed ; he knew only too well what his father
meant.
" There 's a good deal of difference between May Keating
and her sister," he answered hotly.
" About as much difference as bet\v een two peas in a pod ;
they 're from the same worthless stock; there 's not an honest
hair in Jem Keating's head, and the girls are like him. They
want you for your money. When they find out you won't
get any, they '11 drop you quick enough." The keen gray
eyes looked at Will from beneath the bushy eyebrows as if
to read the young man's thoughts.
Without stopping to think, Will said, " There 's where you
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do her an injustice, father, for I have told her what you said,
and she is willing to marry me anyway."
" So — so — she thinks I won't keep my word, — that
after you 're married I '11 give in. Well, she '11 see — she '11
see." The tone was so bitter and relentless that Will felt
saying anything more would only anger his father. He sat
silent for some minutes, arose, and left the room.
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CHAPTER XIX
MRS. JACK'S DINNER
THERE were thirty-two at the big dinner Mrs. Jack
gave for her sister and Will Ganton. On this and
similar occasions she supplemented her own household
force by a chef from Kinsby's and with four men from the
Club. One winter she had a chef of her own, a Frenchman
who looked very stunning in his cap and apron. But he
weighed nearly three hundred pounds, required so many
assistants, consumed so much claret, made such rich sauces
and such desperate love to all the maids, that she was obliged
to discharge him, — to the great relief of John Wilton, who
could not stand the "beastly tub," as he called the man.
For the month after they lived on beefsteak and boiled po
tatoes cooked by Maggie, the laundress, who had served her
time in the kitchen.
"A Frenchman may know how to cook snails," Wilton
remarked, " but he frizzles the hide off a beefsteak, and as
for plain ham and eggs, they look and taste as if they had
come from a hair-dresser's."
Mrs. Jack was greatly disappointed; she had expected
so much from the chef. He had worked for some of the best
families in New York, so he said. Furthermore he had
once cooked a dinner in Paris for King Edward when he was
Prince of Wales, and in the habit of dining about a little more
promiscuously, — not to mention lesser notabilities without
end. Yet his first dinner in the Wilton mansion was a fail-
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ure, the purte was thick, cold, and pasty, the fish was drowned
in an evil -smelling sauce which deterred all the guests except
old Colonel Blowitt, who related how out West he once ate
bronco-steak smothered in onions, and found it very palata
ble, and he insisted that down South during the war a puppy
was a most excellent substitute for young pig. But then
every one knew that nothing ever discouraged the gallant
Colonel's appetite, — not even an unknown fish in a sea of
doubtful sauce. The entree was a mystery; the roast a
cinder; the game scarce warmed through. When Mrs.
Northwood King reached home after this dinner she ex
claimed to her maid : " For goodness sakes, get me something
to eat! I 'm as hungry as a bear."
Other dinners were better, because Maggie, the laundress,
helped; that is, she did the cooking to suit herself, while the
fat chef sat in the centre of the kitchen and gave orders in
broken English which no one understood or noticed.
After the one experience with the French chef, Mrs. Jack,
like most of her acquaintances, relied upon the caterer for a
cook when the occasion exceeded the capacity of her own
household. As the caterer supplied not only the cook, but
most of the things served, from soup to dessert, the custom
led to a sameness in dinners so surprising that it caused a
distinguished guest in the city to remark, after being enter
tained at several houses: "Chicago dinners are good, very
good indeed ; but they lack individuality. They all savor
of the same kitchen."
As for butlers, footmen, waiters, and men to stand about
in " elegant superfluity," as Slafter remarked, the Club was
the never-failing source of supply. Many a visitor remarked
upon the extraordinary resemblance between the servants
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Mrs. Jack's Dinner
employed by different hosts, and the more discerning de
tected the identity at first glance. Wilton was always glad
to have the men from the Club. It was his way of tipping
them, for then he could give them what he pleased without
infringing any club rule, and his liberality was not forgotten.
The great dining-room was brilliantly lighted, too bril
liantly, — which was one of Mrs. Jack's failings. She
thought candle-light was all well enough if supplemented
by plenty of electricity. She covered her table with candle
sticks because that was the thing to do, but a dazzling array
of electric lights above quite overwhelmed the timid light
below. May had often tried to persuade her sister to try
only the candle-light, but the effort was in vain. "If you
want to sit in the dark you can do so, but I like to see what
I 'm eating," Mrs. Jack replied, and ordered the man to turn
on more light.
"One can't have too much light, May, with a French
cook," Wilton remarked during the chef's regime, as he
peered apprehensively into the dish before him.
Will Ganton sat at Mrs. Jack's right; J. Bosworth Wai-
worth at her left. It was the first time the Walworths had
dined with the Wiltons, though often invited. The Wai-
worths were among the most exclusive people of the city,
as became a man whose antecedents were wrapped in dis
creet obscurity. No one knew just who Walworth's father and
grandfather were, and though Mrs. Bosworth Walworth
talked more or less definitely of distinguished Massachusetts
ancestry, the connecting links were shadowy and unsub
stantial. There is a pride of obscurity as well as of race, of
uncertain lineage as well as of certain; the luckless man
socially is he whose father sits about in his shirt-sleeves and
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betrays signs of honest toil. The \Valworth ancestors on
both sides were not in evidence, hence the pride of their
descendants.
The Walworths had no objection to ^Yilton, for his father
had been an old resident and a man of wealth. But Mrs.
Jack was the more than doubtful quantity. As " one of the
Keating girls," she had no passport into exclusive circles;
after her marriage and the building of the great house which
so dwarfed the modest colonial house beside it, Mrs. Wai-
worth called "in self-protection," for, as she explained to
a sympathizing friend, "the young woman has a tongue."
Personally J. Bosworth was rather captivated by his fair
neighbor, who understood so well how to flatter his vanity.
He saw quite a little of her on the walk, and she was always
so gracious that he could not help liking her. From time
to time he had in an indirect way urged his wife to be a little
more condescending and friendly. "They are our neigh
bors, you know, my dear," he said apologetically. " I can't
help it if they are," Mrs. AV. replied snappishly, "I don't
propose to go out of my way to cultivate a woman who is the
talk of the town." But in the end Mrs. Walworth was com
pelled to acknowledge that to be the talk of the town was in
itself a species of distinction wrhich commanded recognition.
J. Bosworth was not handsome, — one of the many ob
vious facts he did not recognize. He was short, stout, and
pursy, with thin hair carefully parted in the middle from his
forehead down the back of his head, and brushed forward
over his ears to meet his reddish side- whiskers, which stood
out from his cheeks as straight as he could train them, —
"after the manner of the old school," he persuaded himself.
Like most short men, he eked out his stature by a pomposity
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Mrs. Jack's Dinner
which did not fail to impress. His one weakness was a
pretty face, — he could not help it. In the presence of a
pretty woman he invariably gave the reddish side-whiskers
an extra twist to make them flare still more. Unhappily
for him, this habit was so fixed that his wife could tell from
the angle of the whiskers what he had been doing and saying,
— not that J. Bosworth ever exceeded the bounds of friendly
intercourse, but he had so many enthusiasms they bored his
wife. He urged her to call on every pretty newcomer who
smiled on him, and he sometimes carried his point, as in the
case of Mrs. Jack.
J. Bosworth posed as a patron of the fine arts, and of
things aesthetic and intellectual in general. He was one of
the governing members of the Institute for Fine Arts, an
officer of the Historical Society, a trustee of the University,
a supporter of the Ruskin Settlement, and prominently
identified with many other public and charitable organiza
tions of various kinds, — not that he, himself, gave liberally
to the several causes, but he made a good figurehead, and
generously solicited his friends to give.
On the whole, J. Bosworth was a credit to the city, "a
gentleman of the old school," in the admiring eyes of the
rawer social products about him. As he sat by Mrs. Jack
and drank in the flattery which flowed in ample stream from
her plump red lips, his round face beamed and his whiskers
stood out in sharp points on each side of his blooming cheeks ;
from the far end of the great oval table Mrs. Walworth could
see these signs of naive delight, and rightly interpreted their
meaning.
"Your wife has quite fascinated my husband," she re
marked dryly to Wilton.
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Ganton & Co.
" Gad, when she sets out to she can fascinate any man."
"Oh!" was Mrs. Walworth's only response.
" So you like my poor little house ? " Mrs. Jack looked
so sweetly at J. Bosworth that he could do no less than
reply:
"It is charming, Mrs. Wilton, perfectly charming. It
exhibits such — such extraordinary taste, — such — such — '
He coulcf get no further; his aesthetic conscience began to
smite him. and smite him hard.
"I am so glad; praise from you — " Mrs. Jack laid the
stress of her eyes upon the " you " — " means so much.
You are such an authority that, do you know, I was almost
afraid to build my house next to yours."
Down deep in his heart J. Bosworth wished she had not,
but with his lips he expressed the disappointment he would
have felt had she built elsewhere.
"Your house is such a dear," Mrs. Jack went on enthusi
astically. "Everybody says our two houses just set each
other off to the best advantage."
J. Bosworth discreetly avoided assenting to that proposi
tion.
Despite Mrs. Jack's best efforts, there were moments when
the dinner dragged. May Keating exerted herself to be
agreeable, but the effort was too obvious; and it was not until
he had drunk several glasses of champagne that Will Ganton
was able to reply in other than monosyllables.
John Wilton was never very bright at a dinner. He had
long been voted just a little heavy, and hostesses always had
trouble in placing him, but on this occasion his sympathies
were so enlisted that he aroused himself and fairly shone —
for him. He proposed the health of Will, and of May, and
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Mrs. Jack's Dinner
of nearly every one at the table at inopportune moments,
and by dint of much champagne, supplemented by not a
little whiskey and water for those who did not drink wine,
he kept his end of the table fairly lively. Notwithstanding
all these efforts, there were lapses which were depressing, and
everybody was glad when the end came and the ladies retired.
As the men drew their chairs about one end of the table
and lighted their cigars, George Axford shook Will Ganton's
hand cordially, exclaiming: "Will, old man, I congratulate
you. You are a lucky fellow."
" Many thanks, Axford. Why don't you follow my
example ? "
" Can't afford it. A wife is an expensive luxury, nowa
days. "
Axford was rich, but, as his friends well knew, he was not
inclined to spend money on any one but himself.
"You can afford it better than I," Will laughed as he
accepted the small glass of cognac the butler offered him.
" If I had an interest in Ganton & Co., I might afford a
dozen wives. As it is I have all I can do to feed and clothe
myself."
" That 's all right, but I may be borrowing of you yet,
old fellow." The sudden change in Will's voice and manner
did not escape his friend, and Axford was sorry he had men
tioned Ganton & Co. The words had slipped out before he
thought, and, as the chance expression invariably does, they
had betrayed the thought uppermost in the minds of all
present that evening. He dropped the subject and tried
to talk of other things.
The men moved their chairs about until the party was
split up into twos and threes, each group talking of what
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Ganton &: Co.
most interested them, mainly business or politics; now and
then loud laughter followed a funny story, which was repeated
for the benefit of others. The conversation was animated.
However stupid and hopeless during a dinner, the American
business man shines so soon as the ladies disappear. If he
can not talk to them, he can talk with his fellow-kind and
talk well.
By the irresistible attraction of repulsion, Wilton found
himself and Delaney chatting quite apart from the others.
He did not like Delaney, and the latter knew it ; hence the
two were more than ordinarily cordial when they met, as if
each unconsciously felt the necessity of keeping up an ap
pearance of friendship to blind the eyes of the curious. This
was not difficult for Delaney, he had no trouble in dissem
bling ; besides, he was not the offended party — and that
makes a difference. Wilton always felt embarrassed when
the other was about, and his embarrassment showed plainly
in the effort he made to appear at ease. It went against
the grain of his blunt and straightforward nature to pre
tend what he did not feel. He therefore did his best to keep
up the conversation without touching the one subject he
wanted to speak about; he would have given anything to
be able to talk right out, to tell Delaney what he thought
of him, and then kick him out of the house. But he knew
that would never do. He had to consider not only his wife, but
their boy, — if it were not for Major he would make a scene,
yes, he knew he should. These ideas were passing through
his mind, even as he sat there talking as calmly as if he liked
the man. How he detested those thin, clean-cut features!
The droop of the mustache annoyed him, for the fellow
was handsome, no mistake about that, and small wonder
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Mrs. Jack's Dinner
women raved over him. He looked cynical enough to
doubt the existence of any virtue in man or woman, and
Wilton could not help recalling some of the ugly stories he
had heard, stories of all sorts of entanglements and rumors
of irregularities in business transactions, which, if proved,
would ostracize the man from the clubs and more than likely
land him in jail. He was capable of anything, not much
question about that; still he must have his good qualities,
for May said he had, and she knew. During a pause in their
conversation, for lack of something better to say, he asked
idly:
"What 's doing in the market, anything ? "
"Nothing, the public are out of it. Only professional
trading, and that does not come my way." Delaney spoke
in a tone of indifference, but as a matter of fact he had not
been so reduced financially in a long time. His few cus
tomers were out of the market entirely; if something did not
turn up before long he would be at the end of his resources.
What prompted him to do it Wilton could not for the
life of him tell, for certainly there was no reason, rather the
contrary, why he should help Lawrence Delaney; but
yielding to a sudden impulse he said :
"I never speculate myself, but I can give you a pointer
which may be useful; Union Copper will resume dividends
at the next meeting of the board."
Wilton was a large stockholder and an influential director
in Union Copper ; interests he inherited had been taken into
the great consolidation of mining properties, and it was
about the only company in the management of which he
actively participated. Delaney knew all this, and further
more he knew that if dividends were to be resumed in the
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Ganton & Co.
near future it meant an advance of at least twenty points in
the stock.
"May I rely upon that?" he asked earnestly. "You
know I have mighty little to lose."
"Such is the present intention," Wilton answered dryly,
sorry he had mentioned the matter. " I have steadily opposed
dividends, but the company is now in a position to resume."
That settled it, for it had been a matter of common knowl
edge in the Street that for more than a year the Wilton crowd
on the board of directors had steadfastly opposed the pay
ment of dividends until the company should accumulate a
surplus sufficient to meet every possible requirement.
The next day Delaney began buying Union Copper, put
ting up as margins not only the little money he had, but every
cent he could borrow. As the stock steadily advanced it
was not difficult for him to secure additional credit with his
bank and brokers, since every purchase showed a profit.
He kept the information he had received to himself. What
was the use of bulling the market when he was trying to buy
the stock on his own account ?
After the great dinner was over and the last guest out of
the house, Mrs. Jack went to her sister's room and dropped
into a chair with a sigh of relief.
" There, it 's over, and now we are in for it, and no mis
take. I hope you won't be sorry." Mrs. Jack's tone
plainly showed that she felt quite sure her sister would be
sorry; she did not like the situation at all, and she did not
like the manner in which their friends accepted it; she felt
for once in her life she had made a mess of it.
May made no reply. She was too accustomed to Mrs.
Jack's moods to pay much attention to them.
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Mrs. Jack's Dinner
"Why don't you say something?" Mrs. Jack asked
crossly.
" What is there to say ? It is all over, and, as you say,
we are in for it. Let us at least make the best of it."
"That Carrie Trehvay, how I detest her!" exclaimed
Mrs. Jack, with sudden recollection of past injuries.
"I thought she and Larry were the life of the dinner."
"She thinks she can monopolize the conversation wher
ever she is."
"It was fortunate for us she did this evening."
" Why did n't you keep up your end better ? That old
cat, Mrs. J. Bosworth Walworth, was taking everything in."
Down deep in her heart Mrs. Jack was immensely de
lighted over the Walworths' acceptance of her invitation,
but at the same time she did not like Mrs. J. Bosworth one
little bit, and she knew Mrs. J. Bosworth did not like her.
For a long time Mrs. Jack sat there commenting upon
the dinner and her guests so keenly that frequently May
could not refrain from smiling. Mrs. Jack did have a
tongue, there was no doubt about it. With unerring pre
cision she could hit the weak spots in the social or private
armor of her acquaintances. When she had exhausted the
failings of her guests her mind veered about to the one
subject that worried her:
" I 'd like to know how you and Will Ganton are going
to live if that old brute cuts him off."
"Will has his salary and an interest in the company.
We shall get along."
" That 's a fine prospect for a girl like you, May Keating,"
Mrs. Jack said scornfully. She could not understand how
her sister accepted the situation so calmly.
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Ganton & Co.
"I am satisfied."
"No; you are not satisfied, and what is the use of saying
so? You are just throwing yourself away, you know you
are; you don't love him."
"There, Sally," May interrupted firmly, "we will talk
no more about it. Whether I love Will Ganton or not,
I am going to marry him. I like him as well as I shall ever
like any man." She began quietly gathering up her things,
which where scattered about the room, and putting them
in the closet. Mrs. Jack sat silent a moment, then jumped
up and impulsively threw her arms about her sister's neck.
" Forgive me, dearie, I did not mean it, but — but I do want
you to be happy, and — and —
"There, Sally, never mind," and May kissed her sister
affectionately. "It is all right; I am happy, happier than I
have been for a long time. I feel I am doing the decent
thing, anyway."
[330]
CHAPTER XX
A STRAIGHT TIP
JOHN GANTON read in the papers all about Mrs.
Jack's big dinner and the formal acknowledgment of
the engagement; his square jaws set firmly together
and the ugly look came into his eyes, but he said not a word.
His wife knew there was a storm brewing, and she fluttered
about the house anxiously, afraid to speak. Will rather
avoided his father, but when they did meet they talked of
business and conditions at the Yards, each trying to avoid
the subject uppermost in his mind.
For some days John Ganton had felt so much better that
he was greatly encouraged ; to be sure, the dull feeling in his
side, the sensation of fulness with occasional shooting pains,
never left him, and there was always the swelling, which
he could now see quite plainly just below the ribs. It did
not grow smaller, but he persuaded himself it did not increase
in size. Night and morning he carefully examined this
strange lump, looking at it and feeling of it carefully and
tenderly, and wondering what it could be.
"It must be a strain," he said to himself; "that is what
it is, and it will go away after a while." But it did not go
away, and he knew it was no strain, for he had never had
anything like it before, and it did not feel like the soreness of
a strain or of a bruise, or anything he had ever experienced,
- it was more like a hard place, some sort of a large lump
inside. He knew that people had tumors and growths which
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Ganton & Co.
had to be cut out, but he fought against the very notion of
anything of the kind. Notwithstanding the fact that he
felt better, still there were days when he could not remain
down town more than an hour or two; it tired him so he
was unfitted for business.
" I guess I 'm growing old," he remarked apologetically
to Browning; "I can't stand as much as I used to." But
neither Browning nor any one else in the office was deceived
by his efforts to disguise his condition ; they all knew he was
a sick man, and from week to week, almost from day to day,
they could see the change for the worse. There were days
when he looked so haggard and seemed to suffer so much
they all wondered at his coming down at all.
John Ganton was not unpopular with his employees;
on the contrary, they entertained for him a singular sort of
regard and loyalty, the regard and respect men of lesser
ability have for one of commanding force and indefatigable
energy. They followed him as soldiers follow a stern, tyran
nical, but successful general; they were the rank and file
of the most powerful industrial organization in the world,
and they participated in its prestige; he was something
more than their employer, he was their leader. In his way
he was kind to those about him, exacting to the last degree
Every one had to work, and work hard, and he did not believe
in large salaries. " Many a good man is spoiled by too
much pay," he often said. " The man who works for money
is n't worth having," was another of his maxims. To men
who applied to him direct he usually said, " If you want to
work for Ganton & Co. take off your coat; if you want to
work for wages go elsewhere."
It was not that he cared so much for money but he
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A Straight Tip
honestly believed high salaries meant less work, and that men
did better if they had to work hard to make both ends meet;
such had been his own experience. That a railroad presi
dent should be paid fifty thousand dollars a year seemed to
him folly run mad, and he had never taken for himself fifty
thousand dollars a year out of his own business. " Pretty
soon," he said, "those fellows won't have time to do anything
but draw their pay and ride around in private cars."
Like so many American business men, his passion was the
making of money, not the hoarding or the spending. He
took a certain satisfaction in reading references to him as
one of the very rich men of the country, as a multi-millionaire,
but every dollar he had was invested. His credit was well-
nigh unlimited, but he had very little ready money, and
what he had belonged to his business, his personal account
at the bank seldom showing more than a few thousand
dollars.
" Why, look here, I have no money," he once said impa
tiently to a committee soliciting a subscription for an ob
ject which did not appeal to him, when the spokesman
suggested that with his great wealth he ought to make a
liberal contribution. " People seem to think I have money
to do what I like with. I have no money," he repeated;
"all the money I have belongs to my business. You talk
about my being worth millions; suppose I should draw out
those millions as if I owned them, what would happen ?
Ganton & Co. would close its doors, thousands of men would
be thrown out of work, people all over the world who look
to us for food and meat would go hungry. You think a
man is rich because he has a great business, but I want to
tell you the man and all he has belong to the business.
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Ganton & Co.
Every dollar I draw out comes from the business, and others
are affected ; every dollar I leave in does good to more people
than it would if spent by you." To another soliciting com
mittee he once said : " Why do you come to me ? I 'm not
rich; why don't you go to the men who live on their rents
and on the interest from their investments ? They have
money to burn, — their money is their own to do with as
they please; my money is tied up in my business, every
cent of it; and most of the time I owe the banks."
None the less, he gave a good deal in his own way; people
who knew him best did not ask him for money, but would
make known the merits and needs of the institutions in
which they were interested and leave the matter without
solicitation, and perhaps a month or a year later he would
send a check, usually for a generous amount.
Since reading the account of Mrs. Jack's dinner, John
Ganton every Sunday morning hunted through the papers
until he found the page devoted to society news, and searched
these columns of small chronicles, tittle-tattle, and gossip for
any mention of Will's name in connection with the Wiltons
and May Keating ; in this way he kept track of what the boy
was doing. He had never before read the society news, —
according to his notions only fools could be interested in
that sort of notoriety, — but now this endless stream of
personal mention gave him information he could get nowhere
else. He learned of the luncheons given for May Keating,
and the dinners given for her and "Will, how often they were
entertained at the clubs, and who made up the parties.
Some of the men mentioned he knew personally or by reputa
tion, but the women he did not know at all, as they belonged
to a world he had never entered. Their amusements were
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A Straight Tip
as strange and foolish to him as performances on the stage.
How people could waste their time in such ridiculous fashion
he could not understand : the same people, the same names,
the same dinners, the same guests, the same clubs, the same
places, the same endless monotony of social life, — it made
him tired to read it, and only the desire to know what Will
was doing spurred him on. At last, one Sunday morning,
he read the following paragraph:
" It is rumored the wedding of Miss May Keating to Mr.
Will Ganton will take place in December."
The old man read and reread the item, cut it out, and
put it in his pocket. All that day he was restless, uneasy,
and irascible, shuffling about the house in his worn old
slippers.
"What is the matter, John? Do you feel worse?" his
anxious little wife inquired several times. At last he re
sponded angrily:
" Don't keep asking me that. I 'm all right."
She relapsed into silence, but she could see something
worried him. With a mother's intuition, she feared it was
something about Will.
The next morning he sent word for Will to meet him in
the library after breakfast.
The old man dressed slowly. He had had his breakfast
brought to his room, but he was not hungry. Still, he drank
half a cup of coffee and tried to eat a piece of the toast which
his wife with her own hands had made and buttered for him ;
but the feeling of nausea had come back mornings. He
could not account for it, but he thought it might be caused
by Doc Ruggles's mixture, therefore he stopped taking it.
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Ganton & Co.
He rested a few moments before going downstairs, and
the feeling of nausea passed away. When he entered the
room Will was standing by the windows looking out upon the
street, where a small boy and a little girl were playing as
contentedly as if life were one long day of sunshine. As he
heard his father enter, Will turned and asked affectionately:
" Well, father, how are you feeling this morning ? "
Without answering, the old man sank down in his leather-
covered chair near the table, fumbling in the pocket of his
waistcoat until he found the newspaper clipping. He held
it out to his son.
" Is that true ? " he asked.
Will read the few lines of print, hesitated a moment, and
replied firmly:
" Yes, it is, father, — that is, wre are to be married before
the holidays. I had intended telling you ; I hoped -
"That's enough," the old man interrupted. "That's
enough," he repeated slowly; "all I wanted to know was
whether it 's true or not. So you have made up your
mind ? "
" Yes, I have." There was no accent of doubt or inde
cision in the answer; it wTas final, and John Ganton knew it.
"Very well," he said, "you remember what I told you."
Will made no reply, and his silence angered his father.
"You remember what I told you," he repeated sharply;
"you can shift for yourself if you marry that girl."
Will knew it would only add fuel to the flame if he at
tempted to plead or argue ; there was no use saying a word ;
for several moments his father glared at him, then he con
tinued relentlessly:
"You will need some money to get married."
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A Straight Tip
Will looked at his father in surprise. "I — I can get
along, father," he stammered. "I have some — "
"You haven't a cent in the world," the old man inter
rupted grimly; "you are overdrawn at the bank and your
salary is paid ahead over a month."
" But I shall make all that good before the wedding. I
have had to use a good deal of money lately."
"In entertaining worthless people, — I know, I know.
I have read of your doings at the clubs and about town,
but you have come to the end of your tether, and you
have n't a cent of money. What are you going to do
about it?"
Will could say nothing. It was all true. He had drawn
his salary ahead and was overdrawn at the bank; he had
spent money freely, as was his habit, without much thought of
the future. The truth was, he believed all along that when
the time came his father would give in, — it did not seem
possible that he could be in earnest.
A disagreeably hard expression played about the haggard
features of the old man as he noted his son's embarrassment,
then he went on in the same relentless tone:
" All you have in the world is the stock in Ganton & Co.
that I gave you three years ago. You can't sell that to
anybody but me; when you 're ready to sell I 'm ready
to buy."
" Father, you don't mean to say you want me to give up
all interest in the business, do you ? " There was a pathetic
ring to the appeal, which would have moved any one but
John Ganton. Apparently he did not hear it, for he merely
repeated :
*' When you 're ready to sell I 'm ready to buy."
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Ganton & Co.
Will looked at his father a moment, and without a word
left the room.
That afternoon John Ganton was seized with such pain
that he had his wife telephone Browning to come to the
house and bring his physician.
When they came they found the old man on the couch in
the library. He would not go to bed, for he was afraid that
if he undressed the doctor would insist on an examination
and discover the swelling in his side.
He described his sensations vaguely as pains in his side
and cramps in his stomach, indicating the locality by passing
his hand across his stomach from side to side in such a man
ner the doctor was puzzled.
"There is something wrong with your liver, Mr. Ganton.
There can be no doubt about it. Your skin shows it."
"That 's just what Doc Ruggles said," the old man com
mented; "he said it was my liver."
" If I could make an examination — " the doctor sug
gested.
"There's no need of it," the old man interrupted hur
riedly. " I guess it 's my liver. Can't you give me some
medicine that will stop these pains ? "
"I can quiet the pains, but it will do you no good in the
long run, Mr. Ganton; it will be necessary for you to submit
to an examination sooner or later, and I should advise it
immediately."
"No; you just give me something to stop these pains,
and I will be all right in a day or two."
The doctor could see the old man's mind was absolutely
fixed against anything like a thorough examination, and that
for some reason he feared it; therefore there was nothing to
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A Straight Tip
do except administer a sedative, just sufficient to allay the
pains. Accordingly he left some small white tablets, with
directions how and when they were to be taken. " But these
will only relieve you for the time being, Mr. Ganton; they
will not cure you."
" That 's all right. If I can get the better of these pains
I '11 get along first rate," the old man replied confidently.
As they left the house the doctor said to Browning :
"I am afraid there is something very serious the matter
with his liver. He ought to submit to a thorough examina
tion at once. Under the influence of sedatives he may feel
better for a short time, but it won't last."
The prediction came true. For a week or so John Ganton
felt much better. Each night he took one of the little white
tablets, and it deadened the pain so that he slept better than
he had for months. The feeling of nausea troubled him
mornings, and he had so little appetite that he had to force
himself to eat; but all this he did not mind so long as the
sharp pains were reduced to a dull ache, which was often
little more than a sensation of fulness in his side. He was
sorry he had not called in the doctor earlier and gotten the
little white tablets which acted so like magic.
During these days of temporary relief the great business
of Ganton & Co. absorbed all his attention; it seemed to
grow and expand in spite of him, like some huge devouring
monster that gathered strength with every bound and swept
on in uncontrollable might and energy.
It was with surprise that he noted the increase in the
company's English business ; the Liverpool office had accom
plished wonders in extending trade, not only throughout
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Ganton & Co.
Great Britain, but to the colonies. MacMasters wrote it
was all due to the efforts of John, that the young man had
a " wonderful head on his shoulders," and much more to the
same effect. This pleased the old man, though he did not
quite believe it all; he did not see how it was possible for
such a bookworm to develop such qualities. However, the
growth of the business was substantial evidence in his favor.
Not until this last interview with his father did Will
Ganton fully realize that in the future he would have to
depend upon his salary and the dividends upon the stock he
held in Ganton & Co. By spending less recklessly he could
get along, but he owed quite a little money here and there,
and these debts must be paid before he could think of
marrying.
It cut him to the quick when his father offered to buy his
stock, to drop him out of the business entirely. He felt so
sure that, once married, May would win his father over, that
he would not think of selling his stock or severing his con
nection with the company. May could do anything with
people about her, — she was so clever, and he had the blind
faith in her which the clever woman always inspires. But
he must make a little money in some way; naturally his
mind turned toward speculation. He lived in an atmosphere
of speculation; his father was the most powerful factor on
the Board of Trade, and hardly a day passed that the financial
columns did not contain reports of the activity of Ganton &
Co. in wheat or corn or pork. It was a part of their great
business to control the supply and prices of grain and food
products; their representative was always on the floor, and
every big firm of brokers did business for them.
Will had not speculated since his last disastrous venture;
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A Straight Tip
he had steadfastly refused to take even a small flyer, but
now, under the pressure of necessity, he dropped into De-
laney's office about four o'clock one afternoon, just to see
what was going on. He found Delaney checking up some
figures on a sheet of paper.
" Anything doing in the market, Larry ? " he asked as he
seated himself.
"Not much. Rails are slow, but there have been good
advances in some of the industrials lately."
" Do you know of any sure thing ? "
Delaney hesitated, looked at Will, and said:
" Why do you ask ? I thought you were out of the mar
ket for good."
" Oh, so I am, but I would n't mind making a little money
on a sure thing."
"There are not many sure things nowadays," Delaney
answered dryly.
"That may be, but sometimes you fellows get pretty re
liable tips. The fact is, Larry, I would like to make some
money, — I need a few thousand pretty badly."
Delaney thought for a moment; he had not told any one
about Union Copper, and he had not intended telling any
one. But there was really no reason why he should not let
Will in; he had bought all the stock he could carry, and
already there had been a substantial advance ; in fact, he was
figuring up how much he stood to win as Will entered the
office. The stock closed that day eighty-two bid; he had
begun buying at sixty-nine; if the company resumed divi
dends at the next directors' meeting the stock would go to
par sure.
"I can give you a pointer, but you must keep it quiet,"
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Ganton & Co.
he said at last. Without mentioning Wilton's name, he told
what he knew about Union Copper, and called Will's atten
tion to the recent rapid advance in the stock.
"If you are sure about the dividend I will go in," Will
said, after considering the figures Delaney laid before him.
" My tip is from an insider who knows," Delaney answered
positively.
" Then go ahead and buy a thousand shares for me. I will
arrange for the margin. I may take on more; it looks safe."
" As safe as anything can be. The company is sound, and
the stock will sell high when on a dividend basis."
The stock continued to advance, and Will bought all told
some three thousand shares at from eight-two to ninety;
to put up margins he was compelled to borrow money; as
the son of John Ganton his credit was good, and he had little
difficulty. He felt so sure of making from ten to twenty
points on the stock that he no longer worried over the imme
diate future; within two weeks the stock he had bought
showed a profit of over twenty thousand dollars, but neither
he nor Delaney sold any. The declaration of a dividend
would send the stock away above par, so both bought a little
more, Delaney in his confidence going so far as to pledge
some securities that did not belong to him.
Larry Delaney felt he owed this lucky stroke entirely to
the generosity of John Wilton, and he determined to show
his appreciation by keeping away from Mrs. Jack; it was
the least he could do in the circumstances. He knew they
were talked about altogether too freely for the good name
of any woman, though that mattered little to him. He had
always been food for gossip, and it was part of the atmos
phere in which he lived, part of his fame, his notoriety, his
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A Straight Tip
social stock in trade; women were attracted toward him
because to know him implied a certain risk, a certain dare
devil recklessness of consequences; there was a hazard in
his mere acquaintance, while his friendship was positively
compromising.
For several weeks after receiving from John Wilton the
tip about Union Copper, Delaney did not go near Mrs. Jack;
he did not call at the house, and declined all invitations.
Mrs. Jack wrote many little notes on the paper with the faint
perfume he knew so well, and she telephoned again and
again; but he pleaded important engagements and was ob
durate. He had made up his mind to do the decent thing
and gradually cut loose. He had meant to do so once or
twice before on May's account, — in fact, he had said to May
he was going to see less of them, and she knew what he meant;
but somehow things had drifted along, and he never carried
his better purposes into effect. There were times while
playing with the Major — he liked the Major better than
any one in the world — when his conscience rallied and smote
him, and he looked into the big blue eyes of the little fellow,
and thought to himself : " Major, this won't do. You and
I are friends, — great chums; you love me and I love you,
and yet all the time I am hurting you behind your back.
I am doing something that will make you feel bad when you
grow up if you hear people talk, and you won't like me any
more; you will hate me. No, Major, it won't do, so I will
just pull up." But he did n't pull up until he felt the sense of
obligation toward Wilton ; he could not accept a favor from
a man and repay it with injury.
Mrs. Jack was piqued ; she did not know what to make of
this sudden change.
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Ganton &: Co.
" Where 's Larry nowadays ? " May asked one day, sud
denly recalling the fact he had not been around for two weeks
or more
"I don't know, and I don't care," her sister snapped out
in a manner that showed, while she might not know, she did
care very much.
May said nothing more, but wondered if there had been a
quarrel.
When Will Ganton asked Delaney where he was keeping
himself, the latter replied :
"Work, my dear fellow, work. I can't afford the social
racket all the time." Even Will was not so dense as to be
lieve that.
Delaney did turn up one afternoon at a reception at the
Northwood Kings' ; on catching sight of him Carrie Trelway
called out loud enough for several who were near by to hear:
" Where 's Mrs. Jack ? She has been looking for you
everywhere for a month."
Everybody smiled, and Delaney himself flushed slightly,
— the hit was too palpable. For once he had no adequate
reply at his tongue's end.
"You scored that time, Carrie," said one of her friends
admiringly.
" Sorry I said it now," Carrie Trelway remarked in a low
voice, as Delaney turned and walked away without a word.
He had come early hoping to get away before Mrs. Jack
arrived, but fate willed otherwise; she came in just as he was
edging his way out. The moment she saw him, she beck
oned to him imperiously, and withdrawing to one corner of
the large hall she asked quickly:
"Why have you not been to see me lately? What have
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A Straight Tip
you been doing? What is the matter?" All the time her
clear blue eyes were fixed so steadfastly on his that he felt
confused, and hardly knew what to reply.
"I — I have been busy," he stammered.
"No; you have not. That is not the reason; I want to
know." Her voice rose, and he looked around apprehen
sively, lest some one should overhear them. At a little dis
tance he could see the group of which Carrie Trelway was
the centre eying them curiously.
" This is no place to talk," he said hurriedly.
" Then wait a few moments until I can get away and
I will take you for a drive."
He knew it was useless to plead any excuse, as he had
none ; they had driven away together from too many similar
affairs for him to decline now. Contrary to his usual manner,
he remained in the corner by himself while Mrs. Jack flut
tered about the reception-room in such high spirits as to
attract comment. "The prodigal has returned," remarked
Carrie Trelway.
" Have you seen Mr. Delaney ? He was here just a
moment ago, and I am sure he was looking for you," Mrs.
Northwood King said with anxious hospitality, quite uncon
scious of any possible irony.
Mrs. Jack murmured something in reply. She resented
the interest people seemed to be taking in her affairs. As
soon as she could decently do so, she made her way to the
hall, ordered her carriage, and she and Delaney went out,
leaving a buzz of comment behind.
Once in the brougham, Mrs. Jack turned to him and said,
with the emphasis of a woman who feels she has the right to
know, " Now tell me why you have not been to see me lately."
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Ganton & Co.
Delaney had been thinking all the time he waited, and had
made up his mind to speak plainly. He saw that subterfuge
would be idle, and only exasperate the more.
"There's no use. This thing can't go on. Jack has
done me a great favor lately. He helped me out of a bad
hole. He is a royal good fellow, and the least I can do is to —
to — " he hesitated.
"Thank you; you needn't say it. I understand," she
put in so calmly that he was surprised at her self-control.
"Men have queer notions of loyalty; pray what has Jack
done to work this change ? "
"Oh, not much; only a tip on the market, but it came
when I needed it badly."
" Only a tip on the market! I thought so," she exclaimed
scornfully; "and that is a man's notion of loyalty — to drop
a woman for a tip on the stock-market."
He winced because he could not help it. There was a
measure of truth in what she said, but she did not understand.
" It is not the money, — that is not it ; but it is the fact
that he did me a kindness in his off-hand, generous way
when there was no need of his doing it. He does not like me,
and I know it; yet because I happened to say I was pretty
hard pressed he helped me out, — even a dog wTill show
gratitude for favors received," he argued.
" How much money do you make by dropping me ? "
The words came deliberately, but he knew she was filled with
rage she could hardly suppress.
" That 's not a fair way of putting it," he answered
irritably. "I told you I don't care anything about the
money."
"It 's a lie," she burst out, losing all self-control. ''It 's
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A Straight Tip
a lie; you do! You know you do. All you care for is
money. I should like to know my price. If you have sold
me for less than — than a million you 're a brute ! " She
collapsed into tears. There was something so ridiculous in
what she said that he could not help laughing, and in the
midst of her tears she laughed too; the strain was over; he
took her little gloved hand in both of his and said :
" Look here, I want you to help me. I am trying to do
the right thing for once in my life."
" That is all right," she sobbed ; " but there is no need
of doing it at my expense. . . . You will come and see me,
won't you ? "
"Why, yes; of course I will, but not so often. Let us
be more prudent, let us — "
" You will come and see me to-morrow, won't you ? "
She said it so pleadingly that he could not find it in his
heart to say no, much as he honestly wished to.
" Yes — perhaps — I will see — would it not — "
"To-morrow at five," she murmured.
He yielded like an exhausted swimmer struggling against
a stiff current, but he firmly determined that if he called
the next day he should not go again for a good long time.
He intended to adhere to his original purpose, though he
could now see it might be necessary to break gradually, if he
would avoid unpleasant scenes.
Mrs. Jack nestled closer beside him. It was dark in the
park, and the rays of the high electric lights scarce penetrated
the interior of the small brougham as they drove on north.
Not a soul could see them ; the two perfectly trained men on
the box kept their eyes fixed ahead, — the whims of their mis
tress were not their business. Mrs. Jack lifted her tear-wet
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Ganton &: Co.
cheek toward Delaney. "Kiss me," she murmured softly.
He drew back a little; he felt that if he yielded all his good
resolutions would go for naught, and he must draw the line
somewhere.
At that moment a large swiftly moving automobile with
its great double headlights swept suddenly around a turn,
and for the fraction of a second the interior of the brougham
was as light as day. Startled, Mrs. Jack drew back to her
own side, and Delaney shrank into his corner. The auto
mobile was gone like a flash, and they were so blinded by
the sudden glare they could see nothing.
For a moment they sat silent; then Mrs. Jack exclaimed
nervously :
' Do you suppose they could see in ? "
"I don't see how they could help it; they were right on
us with those infernal lights." Delaney felt all the irritation
of a man caught in a compromising situation at a moment
when he was trying his best to resist temptation.
" Well, it was probably some one we do not know." Mrs.
Jack was arguing herself out of her fright.
"They might know us, however. ... I think you better
tell the men to drive back."
On the return they exchanged barely a word, and both
were oppressed with a vague feeling of apprehension. De
laney was angry with himself to think he had come at all,
Mrs. Jack felt the humiliation of a woman whose advances
are repulsed. He was dropped at North Avenue, and she
went directly home.
John Wilton was not only in the automobile; he was on
the front seat with the chauffeur. As the machine swept
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A Straight Tip
around the turn he recognized the horses and brougham as
his, and by the glare of the acetylene lamps he caught a
glimpse of his wife and Delaney. Then all was dark as
the big automobile passed like a flash; but that one glimpse
was more than sufficient.
For the moment a sickening feeling of depression came
over him. The anonymous letter, what the French maid
had said, the brutal remark of old John Ganton, his own
suspicions, — all came back to him. He had never be
lieved his wife was more than impulsive, wilful, and im
prudent; he had never believed she would do anything
wrong, thinking she had too much sense, if not too much
pride, for that. She merely loved notoriety, — that was
her weakness. He had persuaded himself that she kept
Delaney at her heels simply to make people talk, and he had
never believed there could be anything wrong; but now,
with his own eyes he had seen them together, driving at
nightfall through the shadows of the park; he had seen
them side by side like two lovers, her hand in his, her face
turned up to his. He wondered if the chauffeur beside him,
if his two friends in the tonneau, recognized who were in the
brougham. The fear lest they had overwhelmed him with
shame. How could they help seeing what he saw ? The
machine was right on the carriage, so close that only by a
sharp turn and skilful driving had the chauffeur avoided a
collision. The man may have been so occupied that he
had no time to look at the occupants of the brougham, but
his friends must have seen everything almost as plainly as
he did, the light was so bright. To be sure they were in
the tonneau, and there was a bare possibility that he and
the chauffeur cut off their view. But no; that was ridicu-
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Ganton & Co.
lous, — the sharp swerve made by the machine gave them
the same unobstructed view, — they must have seen!
All the way down the Drive, through Rush Street, and over
the bridge, he was turning over in his mind the question
whether the others saw or not, his sudden feeling of depres
sion giving way to one of apprehension. Not a word had
been said since they passed the carriage, and he did not
like that; if they had not recognized his wife they would
have gone on talking. Just before entering the park they
had all been talking about something, — he could not re
member what, but they were talking loudly and laughing.
They had had a delightful run to Fort Sheridan and back,
barely escaping arrest in Glencoe for exceeding the speed
limit. From the moment of meeting the carriage not a
word had been said. As they slowed up at the bridge, he
half turned in his seat to say something to break a silence
that seemed to him so ominously oppressive, but he could
think of nothing to say. He even thought his two friends
avoided seeing him, for one looked down the river and the
other turned his head and looked back up the street; it was
probably all in his imagination, but it certainly did seem as
though they wished to avoid speaking.
When they dropped him at the Club, he muttered some
thing about dining down town. They made no comment,
neither did they suggest getting out for a drink, seeming to
take it for granted he would prefer to be left alone ; of course
they knew.
There was no one in the big reading-room except two
men who roomed at the Club ; they" were buried in the even
ing papers, and did not look up as Wilton entered. He
passed into the deserted cafe, ordered a whiskey and soda,
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A Straight Tip
drank it , and ordered another. After drinking three in suc
cession, he felt a little better. The glow of the alcohol
mounted to his brain, and as the weight of fear and depres
sion lifted, he began to think he was a fool to get in such a
state of fright over what his friends might have seen, persuad
ing himself that his own eyes might have deceived him, that
it was all so sudden his imagination had distorted the scene.
His wife would not do anything wrong. Delaney — the
thought of Delaney filled his heart with rage. How he
detested the man, with his handsome face, his cool, cynical
ways. Who was he? What was he? No one knew; an
adventurer, a blackleg, his outspoken enemies said, — but
not to his face.
At the thought of Delaney, Wilton ordered another
whiskey and soda. The smooth-faced waiter looked at him
in surprise; he had never known Wilton to drink four
whiskeys in rapid succession. Long experience within the
narrow limits of club-life had made him quick to observe,
and he knew what and how much the different members
drank. When any man drank more than usual, nine times
out of ten he could guess the reason, taking the same kind of
pride in this special discernment that the boy in the coat-
room took in remembering to whom each hat belonged.
The waiter knew that something troubled Wilton; it was
plain from his manner as well as from the number of whiskeys
he ordered. It was not business, for it was not the hour
of day for business worry. It was not losses at play, for
Wilton never worried over them. Besides, he drove up in
an automobile and came in alone. There must be a woman
in the case, — a man always drank more recklessly when
there was a woman in the case. "' If it were only business a
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Ganton & Co.
man would drink to cheer himself up, but a woman, — that
was different; then he drank in an ugly, desperate mood
and for forgetfulness.
The smug-faced waiter felt sure it was a woman, but
whether Wilton's wife or some one else's it was not so easy
to tell. From club gossip he made up his mind it was
Mrs. Jack. He had never heard Wilton's name mixed up
with that of any other woman; so, with the petty curiosity
of a man whose life is bounded by the four walls of a cafe, he
watched Wilton as he sat there leaning forward with one
elbow on the small table.
He sat there for half an hour or more, then he ordered
something to eat, the nip of the alcohol making him hungry.
He had begun to forget his wife a little, his mind wandering
to other things. He was not intoxicated, for it took more
than four whiskeys to intoxicate him; but on an empty
stomach they were very potent.
When the boy announced that his dinner was served,
he went up to the dining-room. The two members who
roomed at the Club were dining together at a small table
just behind him, and he could hear snatches of their conver
sation, small talk about business, club-life, and people he
knew. He paid no attention to them, though there was
no one else in the big room. He wondered how men could
stand it to live in that way, to dine in such dreary loneliness ;
for his part he had never cared to live at a club. Yet the
bachelor's life had its advantages, for they could talk about
the wives of other men with impunity; they had nothing to
fear, nothing to worry about, and at the moment he almost
envied the two men back of him. Just then he heard one
of them say, " Delaney has made a lucky hit lately."
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A Straight Tip
"How's that?"
" Must have got a tip on Union Copper, for he began buy
ing 'way down, and now it 's in the nineties. If dividends
are resumed it will go to par, and he will stand to make a
mighty pretty sum."
" Guess he needs it badly enough."
" I hear he has plunged for all he 's worth, and if the stock
should drop he would go broke; but they say there is no
doubt about a dividend at the next meeting of the directors."
John Wilton leaned over the paper which he had spread
out on one side of his table and appeared absorbed in the
news on the front page; he did not wish to be caught in the
attitude of listening, but he could not help overhearing, and
every word made an impression. So Delaney had acted
upon the tip he had given him and bought Union Copper.
The meeting of the directors was to be held in New York the
following week, a dividend would be declared, the stock
would undoubtedly go to par, and Delaney would clean up
a lot of money. But if the dividend should be passed again
— what then ? The stock would drop lower than it ever had
been, and — and Delaney would go broke. That was what
the man behind him had said, and the words sank deep into
John Wilton's slightly befuddled brain.
[353]
CHAPTER XXI
DELANEY'S LAST PLAY
IT so happened that the regular quarterly meeting of the
directors of the Union Copper Company fell upon the
Tuesday preceding Thanksgiving, — an inconvenient
date, as it gave directors attending from a distance scant time
to return home. However, John Wilton promised to be back
for Thanksgiving dinner, — promised not his wife, but the
Major, who insisted imperiously that everybody should be
on hand holidays.
' 'Oo '11 be back, papa," he said as his father picked him
up and kissed him good-bye on the Sunday afternoon when
he was leaving the house to take the Limited.
" Yes, I '11 be back, Major, sure, Thursday morning."
" Bwing me a box toclates."
Wilton promised not to forget the chocolates, gave the
little fellow a final hug, put him down in the vestibule, and
hastened out. He did not inquire for his wife to say good
bye, — in fact, he had not mentioned the fact that he was
leaving that afternoon, as he was under the impression she
was out somewhere. Mrs. Jack was not out, but in her
room. She saw the footman take the hand-bag out to the
carriage, she waited and heard her husband go down the
stairs quickly, caught the sound of little Harold's voice, saw
Wilton jump into the carriage, wave his hand to the child,
and disappear rapidly down the street.
It was the first time he had ever left the city without in-
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Delaney's Last Play
quiring for her; once or twice he had gone when she was out
of the house, but he had always left some word. Perhaps
he had this time; no, she knew perfectly well he had not;
he had tried to avoid her; for several days they had seen
little of each other, — in fact, not since the evening she was
with Delaney in the park. There were moments when she
wondered if by any possibility her husband could have seen
her, or if he had received another anonymous letter. Of the
two contingencies the latter seemed far the more likely;
that something had happened was certain. A feeling of
depression stole over her as she saw the carriage disappear
in the distance.
Everything had gone wrong since that afternoon. De
laney had not been to see her; he had not even telephoned.
She had called him up once and asked him to dinner, but he
pleaded some excuse so awkwardly that she knew he did not
wish to come. It was only too plain he was trying his best
to avoid her; instead of being angry, as she would have been
ten days before, she was afraid, — as if she faced some im
pending calamity.
She looked forward to seeing Delaney on Thanksgiving
Day; he was coming for dinner; the invitation had been given
and accepted long before, and he had promised the Major
most faithfully to dine with him. It would be a family din
ner at six o'clock, so little Harold could be at the table, —
only Will Ganton and Delaney besides themselves. She
was certain he would not break his word to the Major, how
ever much he might wish to avoid her, so she waited.
John Wilton knew nothing of all this. He did not under
stand that Larry Delaney was doing his best to keep away
from his wife; all he grasped was that he had seen them
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Ganton & Co.
together in the park the week before, and he assumed that
what he then saw was repeated at every convenient oppor
tunity, — why not ?
Tuesday Will Ganton came down from the Yards and
met Delaney at the Club at luncheon, and together they
walked back to the latter's office. Union Copper had been
fairly active during the morning and was steadily advancing ;
at noon it sold as high as ninety-eight; everybody on the
Street took it for granted dividends would be resumed.
" What time is the meeting ? " Will asked as they walked
along Jackson Boulevard.
"Twelve o'clock is the hour, but they will probably do
nothing until after luncheon," Delaney answered.
" You feel pretty sure about the dividend, Larry ? " Will's
tone betrayed some anxiety. He was carrying a big load;
he had borrowed every cent he could and plunged heavily.
" As it is, I stand to make over fifty thousand dollars ; I have
half a mind to sell and take my profits."
" I am as certain as a man can be who has the word of an
insider who knew what he was talking about. Besides, look
at the stock. It would not advance so steadily if there were
any doubt about the matter. I am taking greater chances
than you are, yet I don't propose to sell. The stock will go
to 110 easily when on a dividend basis." Delaney spoke
so confidently that Will felt reassured; the disposition to
hang on and make just a little more is supreme in the specu
lator's breast.
On entering the office they went at once to the ticker
clicking irregularly in the corner; the tape showed sales of
Union Copper at ninety-eight, ninety-eight and a quarter,
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Delaney's Last Play
a half, five-eighths, three-quarters, and a thousand shares
at ninety-nine.
"By Gad, but she 's a-booming! " Will exclaimed. "If
I had the money to put up I 'd buy five hundred shares right
now."
"I guess they'd carry you downstairs for five hundred
more if you want the stock," Delaney replied, referring to
the big firm of brokers on the ground floor, through which he
did most of his New York business. He telephoned down,
and after a moment's delay the reply came that they would
be glad to execute the order if Mr. Ganton would send down
his note for five thousand dollars. It took but a few moments
for Will to sign the note and send it down by the small office-
boy. He and Delaney returned to the ticker, Union Cop
per had already touched ninety-nine and a half.
" You will be lucky if you get that five hundred under par,"
Delaney remarked.
"It 's all right — it 's a purchase anyway," Will no longer
felt doubtful of the outcome, he was all excitement as he
fingered the narrow ribbon of paper nervously. Delaney
himself was not unmoved, chewing his unlighted cigar to
suppress his elation. It meant to him relief from pressing
obligations and more than enough money to carry him through
the winter. He had staked everything he had, the little money
he could raise, exhausting his credit with banks, brokers, and
friends. He had even borrowed money on securities which
did not belong to him, — this worried him, and he did not
like to think of it, but he had not used the securities until he
was sure he was taking no chances, until he felt absolutely
certain the stock would go up, and he intended to take them
up with the proceeds of the very first sales he made. As he
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Ganton & Co.
watched the tape he could not help thinking of John Wilton
and feeling grateful for the tip so generously given, and he
was glad he had been firm and had steadfastly kept away
from Mrs. Jack, experiencing the novel satisfaction of a
man unaccustomed to denying himself forbidden pleasures.
He was even sorry he had promised to dine there Thanks
giving night, — if it were n't for the Major he would not go.
He wished he could get out of it in some way, — perhaps he
could.
"Five hundred at ninety-nine seven- eighths, — I guess
that 's my stock," Will exclaimed, and Delaney, arousing
himself from his momentary abstraction, again glanced at
the tape.
" Guess you 're right. Next sale will be at par, and then
we must begin to think about letting a little go."
" Not much," Will exclaimed jubilantly, " I '11 hang on
until it touches — '
He did not finish. The ticker, which had been operating
lazily and intermittently, started suddenly into life, and the
tape showed a sale of Union Copper at ninety-nine and three-
quarters, then two thousand shares at ninety-nine and a
half, followed immediately by sales at ninety-nine, ninety-
eight, ninety-seven, and ninety-six; when the stock struck
ninety-five a perfect flood came onto the market, and the
price broke to the eighties in a few minutes, with no bottom
in sight.
At the first break Will Ganton turned to Delaney.
" What is the matter, Larry ? "
The latter did not reply, but went to the telephone, called
up the office down below, and asked if they had anything
from New York on Union Copper. The answer came back:
[358]
Not much,'" Will exclaimed jubilantly, "I'll hang on until it
touches — "
Delaney's Last Play
" Just got a confidential wire that a majority of the direc
tors is in favor of passing dividend, — that 's all."
That was enough. If true, it meant serious trouble for
Will Ganton ; it meant ruin and disgrace for Delaney.
" It can't be true, Larry, it 's some damned stock-jobbing
scheme." Will's face was flushed with anger; he felt as if
some one were trying to trick him.
While they were speaking there were sharp calls over the
telephone for additional margins. All Delaney could do was
to tell the brokers to close out his account, he could not put
up another cent. The active partner in the big firm down
below came hurrying up.
" They have passed the dividend, and the stock will drop
to seventy or lower," he exclaimed. "What shall we do,
Delaney, with the stock we are carrying for you and Mr.
Ganton ? "
"Close mine out," Delaney answered calmly; "I have
nothing to put up."
" Your margins are already more than exhausted. Have
you no securities that you can put up to protect us against
loss ? " the broker asked coldly.
" Nothing ; I have put up everything — "
"You know what that means?"
" Yes ; I cannot help it. Close out the account, and pro
tect yourself as best you can," Delaney said slowly. He
suddenly remembered the securities which he had put up
and which did not belong to him. " Look here — those
bonds I left with you last week — I wish you would hang
on to those a little while, and give me a chance to redeem
them in some way."
The broker eyed Delaney suspiciously. From the lat-
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Ganton &: Co.
ter's manner he more than half suspected that the bonds
belonged to some customer, and he feared there might be
trouble with the owner if he held on to them; such things
were not uncommon in their business.
"Sorry, but I can't do it. Those bonds are the best
collateral you have with us, and we must get what we can out
of them ; we stand to lose anywhere from five to ten thousand
as it is. It 's hard to realize on the stock, now everybody
is unloading. Of course Mr. Ganton can take care of his
trades ? " The man looked inquiringly at Will, who had been
watching the ticker and at the same time listening to the
conversation without fully comprehending at first the extent
of the disaster; when asked if he was prepared to take care
of his trades, his face again reddened with anger, he turned
upon Delaney, and fairly shouted:
" Look here, Delaney, it strikes me we 've been played
for suckers. Who gave you that tip about the dividend ? "
Delaney hesitated, as he did not wish to mention Wilton's
name. Will Ganton noticed the hesitation and instantly
became suspicious.
" By Gad, Delaney, I want to know who gave out that tip."
Delaney thought a moment, then he replied slowly:
" You have the right to know, Will ; it was John Wilton
himself. The night we all dined there he told me dividends
would be resumed at this meeting."
"Wilton told you that!" the broker exclaimed. "W7hy,
our New York correspondent says he and his friends de
feated the resolution; that is why the stock is dropping out
of sight. If Wilton is against a dividend, there must be
something wrong with the company, as he never plays the
Street."
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Delaney's Last Play
"Well, it was he who gave me the pointer," Delaney
insisted.
"That 's mighty queer, for I cannot see what reason he
could have for wishing to do up you and Mr. Ganton."
" He did n't know anything about my being in the stock,"
Will remarked gloomily.
" Oh ! " the broker exclaimed significantly, as if an idea
had suddenly occurred to him. He hurried back to his
office to pass the word around to buy Union Copper, for
there was probably nothing at all the matter with the com
pany. Sure enough, in the closing half-hour of the session,
the stock began to recover rapidly. But Delaney's account,
and with it Will Ganton's, had been closed at almost the
lowest figures of the day.
Delaney was too insignificant a figure in the great world
of high finance for the announcement of his failure to cause
more than a passing ripple on the surface; it was of greater
moment in social circles. Bankers and brokers who were
not directly involved read the news with the callous indiffer
ence of their class, though their wives manifested a much
more curious interest; and when they learned that John
Wilton had caused the drop in Union Copper, this was more
than sufficient to set tongues wagging. Even the Street —
ever suspicious and never charitable — began to suspect
Union Copper had been used for a purpose. One paper in
commenting on the unexpected action of the directors said:
"It is an open secret the action of the directors was a
surprise to themselves. A dividend was confidently expected,
and it was not until the meeting that Wilton announced him
self as opposed on the ground, so it is stated, the company
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Ganton & Co.
can use more working capital to advantage; but the published
statement of the condition of the company shows a large
increase in the surplus and ample working capital ; there are
rumors afloat that considerations of a personal nature in
fluenced the leader of the majority of the board."
A gossipy society weekly contained this item:
" Since the duello is no longer in vogue, the injured
husband must get his revenge in ways more in accord with
the commercial spirit of the age. Instead of the sword, the
large corporation may be manipulated so as to humiliate
the hated rival."
It was not until he bought the Chicago papers of Wednes
day while on his way home that John Wilton learned of
Delaney's disastrous failure. As he read the brief mention
in the news columns a grim smile of satisfaction spread over
his features. He could not help exulting over the downfall
of the man he detested ; but when he read the more detailed
accounts on the financial page, and learned that Delaney was
thousands of dollars worse off than nothing, that he was
probably involved deeper than any one knew, that he was
utterly ruined, a feeling of pity stole into his heart. John
Wilton was generous to a fault; never before had he deliber
ately set about to injure any one. He began to feel ashamed
of himself; he dropped the papers on his lap and sat gazing
out of the window upon the fields as they went scurrying by
in their light mantle of freshly fallen snow. Was it worth
while, he kept asking himself, — was it worth while to wreak
his vengeance in that way, to jeopardize the interests and repu
tation of a great company to crush a man he did not like?
Was it a manly and decent thing to do ? That troubled him,
and he began to drop in his own estimation. His revenge no
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Delaney's Last Play
longer gave him any satisfaction ; the more he thought about
it the less he liked it. Later, when the waiter came along
and rapped at the door of the compartment to ask if he was
not going in to luncheon, he said no; he did not care for
anything to eat. All the afternoon, until the train pulled
into the dingy station in Chicago, he sat looking moodily out
of the window.
All day Wednesday Delaney did the best he could to aid
the brokers and bankers in straightening out his affairs; not
that they were very complicated, but he was indebted in so
many directions. He worked so steadfastly and so quietly,
and seemed so desirous of helping all he could, that more than
one man expressed sympathy for him.
"Better luck next time, Larry," said one of his friends.
"There will be no 'next time,' my boy; this is my last,"
Delaney answered with a queer smile. He knew it would be
only a day or two before the owners of the securities he had
hypothecated would discover what he had done, and that
meant — he did not like to think of the consequences, but
he knew that to remain in Chicago meant arrest and prosecu
tion. He had done many things in a business way which
were not right, but never before had he taken and used what
belonged to others ; never before had he placed himself where
he could be classed with common thieves and embezzlers.
He wondered what some of his friends would say, what
Carrie Trelway would say, what May Keating would think,
how Mrs. Jack would feel. Strange to say, he felt more con
fidence in the charity of the two former than in Mrs. Jack's ;
her pride would be offended, her own selfish considerations
would more than counterbalance any feeling for him. And
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Ganton & Co.
there was the Major, — some day he would understand.
The thought of the Major brought a lump into Delaney's
throat.
A few of his creditors met on Thanksgiving morning and
spent an hour and a half in going over his books and papers.
There were not many to go over; he kept his accounts in one
small ledger, in such a manner that only he could supply the
key, and most of his papers were locked up in the safety-
deposit vault in the basement. As the vault was not open
that day, it was agreed they should all meet the next morning
at ten o'clock to make up a final inventory and statement.
Delaney took luncheon at an obscure eating-house in
Fifth Avenue. He went there because he felt certain he
would not meet a soul he knew, but he was mistaken. The
girl who served his coffee, rolls, and cold tongue recognized
him. She had once worked at the Wiltons', and everybody
who worked there liked Delaney with that curious devotion
which the servant ever displays toward the generous friend
of the mistress.
" Why, Mr. Delaney, what are you doing here on Thanks
giving Day ? " she asked as he took his seat on one of the
high stools ranged along the moist and shiny counter.
He looked up surprised, and for a moment could not recall
where he had seen the girl. When he remembered, he
replied with a friendly smile:
" I did not suppose any one here would know me. I have
been working all the morning, and just stepped around for a
cup of coffee and a bite to eat."
" Well, I never expected to see you at a ten-cent lunch-
counter," the girl laughed as she filled his order; "and of all
days ! "
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Delaney 's Last Play
" It is not the first time, Katy."
"Not but what the things to eat are good enough," she
exclaimed with a show of pride in her occupation, "but
somehow it seems queer to see you sitting there and eating
just like — just like — She did not know how to express
herself without offending.
Delaney laughed, — the first time he had laughed that
day, — and felt grateful to the girl for pulling him out
of himself.
" Just like an ordinary, every-day man, you meant to say,
Katy?" The girl nodded her head. " Well, that is all I am
— to-day. To-morrow," his voice dropped, "I may be
something more."
" You ought to marry and have a home of your own, Mr.
Delaney," the girl said in a tone of firm conviction as she
gave him another little square pat of suspiciously yellow
butter.
" Marriage is a lottery, you know," he answered smiling.
" It 's no more of a lottery than speculation. Men come
in here every day who lost everything they had on the Board
of Trade. They lunch at the Club as long as they can afford
it, then they drop down here. Oh, I see and hear a lot of
things."
Delaney glanced up suspiciously, wondering if the girl
had heard of his failure. No ; she had not, as was apparent
from her unconscious manner. But if he came once or twice
more she would suspect the truth and learn all about him.
When he had paid the quarter for his meagre luncheon
he left a five-dollar bill on the counter, remarking, " For the
sake of — old times, Katy," and passed out.
The girl stood with a towel in one hand and the empty
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Ganton & Co.
coffee-cup in the other, too dazed to say a word; but as he
disappeared down the street she exclaimed to herself, " Well,
I never! That 's just like him. There 's something wrong,
or he would never have given me that fiver."
Delaney walked slowly east in Adams Street. At the
corner of La Salle he stopped and waited for a carette. The
street was nearly deserted. The air was chill, the sky gray,
and there was a swirl of snow which blew hither and thither
about the great, tall, grimy buildings. It was certainly not
a bright and cheerful Thanksgiving Day. As the carette
came lumbering along, Delaney took a last look at the Board
of Trade at the head of the street. How sinister and for
bidding it seemed at the moment ! — even less inviting
than the great county jail on the North Side. How many
men had been ruined within those gray stone walls ! — more
than any one knew, more than any one could ever find out,
men and women all over the country, in every city and vil
lage, even in regions remote, from bankers and brokers to
drovers and farmers and small merchants, clerks and em
ployees, ruined directly or indirectly by what was done
within those four walls.
Silent and deserted for the time being, on the morrow it
would awaken to life, and the great room, with its many pits,
its hundreds of telegraph instruments, its hurrying messen
ger boys, its crowd of excited traders, would resound with
the hoarse cries of speculation, but he would not be there;
for him the Board would remain forever silent and closed,
even as — the carette rolled noisily past the corner, and the
Board passed out of sight.
Delaney found at his rooms two notes, one from Mrs.
Jack, in which she said briefly they would surely expect him
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Delaney's Last Play
for dinner at half-past six instead of six, and would wait for
him if he were late. Evidently she knew nothing about her
husband's connection with his losses and failure, otherwise
she would realize that he could not dine with them.
The other note read as follows :
" MY DEAR LARRY: — It is too bad, and I am so sorry for
you. If I had any money I would give it to you to help you
out; but I am poorer than you are, since I am a woman —
and that is a deficit to begin with. As it is, all I can offer is
my heartfelt sympathy; if this could be distributed among
your creditors it would be more than enough to pay them in
full. Of course you will come out all right in the end ; mean
while I know how you must feel , and I want you to know that
you have friends who stand by you and sympathize with you.
"Now don't shut yourself up and get moody, but make the
best of the situation. Do not fail to dine with us to-night.
We shall expect you, and I, for one, shall eat no dinner until
you come, — there! "Sincerely,
" MAY K."
Delaney's eyes were moist when he finished reading the
note; he read it once again, and pressed it to his lips almost
reverentially before going to the fireplace to tear paper and
envelope in small pieces and cast them into the grate.
He spent the afternoon going through trunks and boxes
and drawers, searching out cards and notes and letters,
photographs and little souvenirs of every kind which could
in any way betray his friends if they fell into strange hands.
It was a long task. He was surprised himself at the accu
mulation of years. It had never been his habit to keep evi
dences of the imprudences and follies of others, and yet there
were notes and letters he ought to have destroyed long ago,
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Ganton &: Co.
and many he thought he had destroyed. Some of the letters
he threw into the fire with careless indifference, others he
read, many of them for a second or third or fourth time,
before he dropped them into the flames, reading them with
all the wistful yearning for the past that creeps over a man
when he recalls happy hours forever spent, faces and places
never to be seen again under the same delightful conditions.
It seemed to him as if he were reviewing his life. When
he threw his head back and closed his eyes, a panorama of
scenes and events and persons passed rapidly before his
inner vision; so slight a thing as a bit of faded blue ribbon
sufficed to recall a ball he had long forgotten, a ball in one of
the great houses of New York that he had attended the first
year out of college, when friends were many and life was
promising; the crush and the jam, the sea of faces, the whirl
of the dancers, the music, — all was vague and indistinct,
save a corner, a window-seat, some protecting portieres, a
fair young face with blue eyes, a white dress, and — a bit
of blue ribbon. How they had danced and danced until
intoxicated with the music, aglow with the excitement of the
occasion, made mad by the spirit of the hour, he had talked of
love, and she had listened, and for the time being everything
seemed so easy of fulfilment ; but of that evening with all its
music and intoxication, with all its passionate avowals and
tender responses, there remained — only a bit of faded blue
ribbon. How much better it would have been for him, per
haps for her, if the tie had been just a little stronger !
Again the fragment of a card, which bore in pencil the
one word "Yes," written hastily, impulsively, served as a
key to release a flood of vivid recollections, — recollections
far different from those aroused by the bit of blue ribbon, a
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Delaney's Last Play
winter's folly, a woman's devotion, jealousy and hatred,
his own cynical indifference, — how strange it all seemed !
There was one packet of letters, most of which bore
foreign postmarks ; these he had carefully kept under double
lock and key, — not that it ever afforded him any pleasure to
read them, but with the notion that some day they might
prove of use to him. As he cut the cord that bound them
together and looked at them one by one, a bitter smile crept
into his face; she was the one woman he had loved, blindly,
madly, passionately — and she had wrecked his life. For
her he had done things which caused men to look upon him
with suspicion, things for which he despised himself; with
her he had lived in a fool's paradise for a time, spending all
he had and more than he could make fairly and honestly;
for her he had thrown over friends and destroyed every
prospect in life. In the end, after he had given her not only
his name, but had squandered the present and discounted
the future, she had left him with the same heartless indiffer
ence he had left others; had gone to live abroad how and
with whom he did not know and did not dare to guess, and
all that remained was this packet of letters. If he had only
married the bit of blue ribbon, how much better! It would
have taken so very little to make of him a different man
It was after six o'clock when Delaney finished going
through his desk, his trunks, and every nook and corner
where by any possibility anything of a personal nature
might be found. He even tore out the fly-leaves of a number
of books which had been given him. He did not wish to
leave behind so much as the scratch of a pencil which might
involve a friend.
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Ganton & Co.
When the last scrap of paper was destroyed, he walked to
the window and looked out upon the street below. There
was still snow in the air, and the walks and pavement were
white. A cab went by, jolting over the rotten and rough
round block pavement. Some one hurrying for dinner, he
thought to himself.
It so happened the man in the cab, hurrying north, was
Will Ganton on his way to dine at the Wiltons'. Afterward
he remembered glancing up at his friend's rooms, and re
called that he saw no light in the windows.
There was not a soul in the house. The people on the
first floor were away for the day; the maid wrho looked after
his rooms had gone out; and he was alone.
He heard the clock in the room below chime the half-
hour, — it was half-past six. At that moment they were
expecting him at the Wiltons' — Mrs. Jack, May, and the
Major. Yes, the Major would wonder and ask why he did
not come; the Major would miss him, even if no one else
did. Delaney pulled away at his moustache as he thought
of the little fellow he would never see again. "It 's all right,
Major," he muttered to himself; "it 's all right. You and I
part friends now, but some day you would have learned to
hate me. It is a good deal better as it is." He wished he
had sent the little fellow a box of candy, and felt irritated to
think he had not. "Yes; I 'm a brute, Major; I forgot all
about it, — just a selfish brute, thinking all day long about
my own affairs, as if they were worth thinking about."
He was still standing by the window looking out, but he
no longer saw the street or the snow -covered pavement, or
the flickering light of the street-lamp opposite; he saw the
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Delaney's Last Play
great dining-room in the Wilton mansion, with its fine white
napery, extravagantly decorated china, and profusion of
silver and gold. How well he knew that table and every
feature of the costly service! There was Wilton at one end
and Mrs. Jack at the other; May Keating and Will Ganton
on one side, the Major and his vacant chair on the other.
They were waiting for him, — of that he felt quite sure. John
Wilton alone would understand his absence. He would
not expect him under the circumstances, but he could hardly
explain matters to the others, therefore they would wait —
how long? That would depend upon the hold he still re
tained upon their friendship; the Major at all events would
not want to begin without him. He should have sent word
he could not come; that would have been the right thing
to do.
It must be nearly seven now; they would not wait much
longer.
He turned from the window, went quickly to the bureau
in his bedroom, and from the small top drawer on the left-
hand side, near his bed, took out a revolver; returning, he
held it down and examined it carefully by the flickering
light of the fire, to make sure it was loaded. Seating himself
in his easy-chair by the table, he threw his head back,
and without a moment's hesitation raised his hand, placed
the muzzle of the pistol against his temple, and pulled the
trigger. . . .
There was a flash that seemed to light up everything, a
crash like a thousand peals of thunder rolled into one,
a thud, a blow that caused every fibre of his being to vibrate;
but there was no pain. For an instant every faculty seemed
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Ganton & Co.
alive; strange memories poured in upon him, scenes of his
childhood long forgotten swept before him; his home, his
mother, the town in which he was born and where he spent
his boyhood days, the face of every playmate, school days,
and college days, — all came back to him as vividly as the
details of a scene start out of the blackness of night under a
flash of lightning. For the time being his mind was aroused
to a state of abnormal excitement; it was as if a piece of
delicate mechanism had received a rude shock which caused
every part to tremble and oscillate to the verge of destruc
tion ; cells and fibres long disused thrilled into life. He knew
what he had done, he knew he had tried to kill himself;
he remembered seating himself in the chair and throwing
his head back on the cushion, just as he had done thousands
of times before when he wished to think and dream; he
remembered placing the pistol against the side of his head
and pulling the trigger; then, instead of death and darkness
and instant annihilation, life and light intense. He had
failed in his attempt; they would find him wounded and
mutilated; the surgeons would work over him to preserve
the life he valued so lightly, — how ridiculous! Still he
must try again ; but the thought produced no movement, no
sensation of action. It was as if he were detached from his
body; as if he were far removed from things physical, as if he
were at the same time within and without the room, within
and without the world itself. Time itself seemed strangely
condensed, the scenes of his life did not pass before him in
sequence, in chronological order, but as an entirety, as if
childhood and boyhood and manhood were one, as if their
apparent separation were only a freak of the imagination
or a trick of memory. . . .
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Delaney's Last Play
The world of appearances faded away; faces grew dim
and recollections vague and shadowy; the startled cells and
fibres of the brain sank to rest, and all was — peace.
When they found his body the next morning his brains
were oozing from a jagged hole in the right temple; death
had been instantaneous — the doctor said.
[373]
CHAPTER XXII
OUT OF THE YARDS
SATURDAY morning Will Ganton told his father about
his losses in the market. He could not postpone the
disagreeable interview longer, as the banks and brokers
were pressing him for a settlement. It was not that they
doubted his ability to make good any losses, but the un
pleasant disclosures which followed Delaney's death made
every one in the Street suspicious concerning trades with
which the latter had anything to do.
The old man was propped up in bed, reading the morn
ing paper, when Will entered the room.
"So that Delaney was no better than a common thief.
He used his customers' securities to raise money." John
Ganton took a savage satisfaction in reading the exposure of
Delaney's affairs. He had never liked him, looking upon
him as a " club fellow " and a society chum of Will's, whose
influence was anything but good.
"That is one of the things I came in to talk about,"
W7ill said hesitatingly; he hardly knew how to begin.
"Well, what is it ? " The old man dropped the paper on
the bed and looked up suspiciously. "You don't mean to
say you are involved in that rascal's affairs," he continued
harshly, half divining the truth from his son's expression.
"Yes; I am," Will blurted out, "I bought Union Copper
when he did, and stand to lose over forty thousand dollars."
There was a look of dogged defiance in his eyes.
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Out of the Yards
For a moment or two the silence was ominous; John
Ganton's gray eyes half closed and his jaws set so tightly
that Will could hear the teeth grind together.
" So," he muttered hoarsely, " you have been speculating
again."
" I needed the money." Will's tone expressed the dogged
defiance that was in his look.
"To get married, I suppose; to marry that girl." The
old man's voice expressed his bitterness and hatred. " Well,
you have n't got it, and you are forty thousand dollars worse
off than nothing. What are you going to do about it ? "
"Raise the money in some way and make good what I
owe." The young man was getting angry, and his manner
showed it.
" Then go out and raise it, — what are you bothering me
for ? I told you if you speculated again not to run to me for
help. Go tell that girl you are forty thousand dollars worse
off than nothing, and see if she will be so anxious to marry
you. What do you suppose she cares for you ? " the old man
continued hoarsely, — "what do you suppose she cares for
you ? It 's my money she 's after, — I know the breed.
But she won't get a cent, — not a red cent."
Will's face was flushed and ugly.
" I 'm not asking you for money ; and I don't want to
hear anything more against that girl. She 's as good as we
are, and a damned sight better. Because Jem Keating got
the better of you in a deal you are down on him. I don't
want your money, and you can take it and go to — " the
last word died on his lips; angry as he was, reckless as he
always was when angry, there was something in the deathly
look of his father that brought him to his senses just in time.
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Ganton & Co.
A spasm of pain seized the old man. He dropped back
on the pillows, great beads of sweat starting out on his fore
head, his features writhing in anguish as he clutched at his
right side with both hands and groaned deeply.
In an instant Will's anger evaporated; he rushed to the
bedside exclaiming:
"What is it, father? What can I do? Shall I call
mother ? "
The old man shook his head, and as the pain subsided he
collapsed limp and exhausted. His skin, even to his hands,
was moist with perspiration. Slowly and almost mechani
cally he mopped his forehead with the handkerchief that
lay on the coverlet. His hand wras so thin and his move
ments so feeble that Will's heart was filled with pity, — he
would have given anything to recall his bitter words, but it
was too late. John Ganton had heard them, even in the
midst of his pain he caught the significance of every syllable,
and he did not forget. He wras vindictive; he never forgot,
he never forgave. For a time he was too exhausted to say
anything, making no response in any way to Will's overtures
of sympathy and affection; as he recovered his strength his
face assumed the hard, relentless expression Will knew so
wel), and when he did speak, slowly and with an effort, all
he said wras; "You have some stock in Ganton & Co. I
will buy it. Take it to Browning. He will give you a check
*Ms morning, then you are — free to do as you please."
" But, father — This time there was a ring of anguish
in the young man's voice.
"That's all," the old man interrupted relentlessly.
"Take the stock to Browning this morning, and then leave
the Yards." John Ganton's voice rose as he uttered the
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Out of the Yards
last words, he turned on his left side with his face to the wall,
and closed his eyes as if he wished to sleep. The interview
was at an end; so far as his father was concerned, Will Gan-
ton felt his own future was irrevocably determined.
That morning he indorsed his certificates of stock in
blank and delivered them to Browning, went out to the
Yards, cleared up his desk, and when he closed it at six
o'clock he was no longer in the employ of Ganton & Co.
As he was leaving the Yards he met McCarthy near the
gates; they walked along together.
" How is the governor ? " McCarthy asked.
"Pretty bad, McCarthy; he is a sick man, and no mis
take."
" That 's bad, the business will miss him. He knows it
from the ground up, that 's sure. I suppose you '11 be taking
his place down town soon?"
"No; I'm out," Will answered abruptly. McCarthy
looked up as if he did not quite understand.
"Yes; I 'm out, McCarthy," the young man continued,
with as much indifference as he could assume. " This is my
last day in the Yards with Ganton & Co. The governor
and I have split."
"Well, I '11 be " McCarthy exclaimed. "You don't
mean to say you 've quit the job for good ? "
" That 's about the size of it."
" Well, I '11 be - - " The old foreman could not finish
his exclamation. Words failed him, — that Will Ganton
should leave the Yards, — should leave Ganton & Co., —
if he had been discharged himself he could not have been
more dumfounded.
As Will swung upon the step of a moving car and shouted
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Ganton &: Co.
good-bye, McCarthy still stood at the corner muttering to
himself, " Well, I '11 be " When the news spread among
the men they were sorry, — even the strikers who had suffered
at Will's hands were sorry, — they all liked him, liked him
for the brute-like strength and qualities that made him
feared. More than one man remarked, " He 's a chip of the
old block; that 's why they can't get on together."
Will did not go home that night ; he felt a good deal as if
he had no home; he had been told he was free to do as he
pleased, — in other words, that he might shift for himself.
What right had he to live under his father's roof and sit at
his table ? His reflections were many and bitter.
All day Sunday he sat about the Club trying to make up
his mind what he should say to May Keating. There was
but one thing to do, and that was, make a clean breast of it;
yet how could he tell her all the brutal truth ? How could he
explain to her the reason why he and his father had parted
in such anger ? But she would suspect the truth ; she would
know it was on her account ; there would be no use in trying
to conceal anything from her.
From time to time he ordered a Scotch-and-soda to brace
him up, until, when night came, he felt and showed slightly
the effect of the whiskey he had taken so steadily during the
day.
When he entered the Wilton reception-room his face was
somewhat flushed, and he had the coarse look that May
Keating had seen before and disliked so much. She recalled
a saying of Delaney's, " Never marry a man until you have
seen him drunk."
Mrs. Jack did not come down. She had kept her room
most of the time since Delaney shot himself. She could not
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get over the tragic death and the disclosures which followed ;
that it should turn out the man she had encouraged was a
criminal, that in all likelihood he was married and no better
than an adventurer, living on his wits, humiliated her. She
did not care so much about his death, — that was the best
thing he could have done; she did not care very much about
him; she did care about herself. She had the unpleas
ant feeling that every woman she knew was gloating over
her humiliation, that people were saying the most outrageous
things about her and Delaney. Thank goodness, not a letter,
not so much as a scrap of paper, had been found. She was
wild with apprehension until Wilton himself made discreet
inquiries, and learned that Delaney must have spent most
of Thanksgiving afternoon destroying letters, photographs,
and papers, the charred fragments of which filled the grate.
" The fellow had the instincts of a gentleman, anyway,"
Wilton said to himself, and he could not help adding, "Poor
devil! I wish I had kept out of it."
When he told his wife that no letters or notes of a personal
nature had been found, she exclaimed hysterically:
" There was nothing, Jack, — nothing — I never wrote
him a line you could not see. . . . Don't you believe me,
Jack?"
He chewed away at the end of his moustache and looked
out of the window without replying.
She sank down onto the sofa, sobbing convulsively; she
did not care whether he believed her or not, — it did not
matter so long as every note and letter had been destroyed.
When Will Ganton entered the room, May Keating felt
sure something unusual had happened ; never before had he
come to see her after he had been drinking to such a percep-
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tible extent; instinctively she knew he had been trying to
nerve himself to tell her something he was afraid to tell. As
he sat there nervously twisting the fringe on the arm of the
chair, he looked so dull, heavy, and stupid, so coarse and
common, that a feeling of disgust, mingled with profound
pity, came over her; surely he had never appeared quite like
that before. Yes; she remembered that the night at the
Club when he drank too much wine he had looked much the
same, only that night he was boisterous, while now he sat
there like a clumsy lout. She began to be angry with herself
and with him ; could it be possible that she had ever promised
to marry such a man ? And yet — there was so much that
was worth saving in him, if his father could only see how
little encouragement it would take.
She waited. He had attempted some commonplace re
mark, but she did not respond, she waited.
" I 've got something to tell you, May," he said at length,
hoarsely.
"I thought so," she responded quietly, almost indiffer
ently; "what is it?"
" I 'm out of the Yards." He kept his eyes fixed on the
floor and tugged away at the fringe on the chair.
" Out of the Yards ! " she repeated with a start. " What
do you mean?"
" That 's just what I mean, — out for good. I quit
Ganton & Co. to-day, — must shift for myself. You might
as well know the worst, May." The words came slowly, and
his voice was just a little thick. He did not lift his eyes from
the floor, he was afraid of her.
She looked at him a moment or two, her lip curling slightly
as if in contempt.
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" You have had another quarrel with your father ? "
He made no answer.
" What is the matter now ? Was it on my account ? Tell
me! " she said sharply.
"No; it was n't about you this time, May," he answered
hurriedly, " that is — not entirely. It was mostly some
thing else. You see I had been speculating a little. I
bought Union Copper along with Delaney, and when they
passed the dividend and the stock went down I stood to lose
a good deal. To pay up I had to sell my stock in Ganton
& Co., and — well, the governor dropped me out of the
Yards. That 's all there is about it."
From his manner May Keating knew he had not told her
all the truth, but she had heard enough. He had been
thrown out of the business and was practically penniless;
his father would probably provide a place for him, but not
so long as he persisted in his intention of marrying her. The
relentless old man was bound to break that match, even
though in doing so he wrecked his son's future. For the
first time since she had known that John Ganton was op
posed to Will's marrying her because she was the daughter
of Jem Keating, she began to feel the utter hopelessness of
attempting to oppose his iron will. For that matter, was it
worth while to struggle, she asked herself, as she looked at
the coarse figure and flushed face opposite her; there was
something of the father there, all the brute element, but little
of that force which made John Ganton respected and feared
by friends and foes alike. No; it was not worth while to
hazard her own happiness and wreck his future by blindly
fighting fate; the matter was hardly debatable now he was
in no position to maintain a home. In a day or two every-
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body would know that he had left the company, and people
would say he had been put out on her account. The best,
the only fair thing to do was to break the engagement at
once, before it was too late, and let him regain his position.
They must come to an understanding now. ... All these
thoughts flashed through her mind as she sat there looking
at him, hardly knowing how to frame in words what she
wished to say.
"Well, May, what are we going to do about it?" he
asked, looking up furtively after the manner of a child who
dreads a scolding. The question gave her the opportunity
she sought.
"There is but one thing to do, Will, and that is — " she
hesitated, and then continued firmly, "break off our engage
ment. There is no use," she went on hurriedly, as she saw
he was about to protest, — " there is no use. Your father will
never give in. He is bitter and relentless, he is a sick man,
and he will cut you off, all on my account. We could not
marry now if we wanted to. You have nothing, I — well, I
am dependent upon others. Two needs do not make a plenty."
He looked at her in dull amazement ; all he could say was :
" Look here, May, you don't mean to say — you don't
mean to say you 're going to throw me over ? " He rose to
his feet and took a step toward her, but she got up quickly
and avoided him.
" I mean just what I say. It is better, — it is the only
thing to do. I have no right to stand between you and your
father. I have been wrong, wrong, wrong. Let us drop
the matter now, right here, before it is too late. In a day or
two everybody would know. You must go back to your old
place to-morrow."
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Out of the Yards
"I'll be damned if I do!" he said doggedly, his face
flushing a deeper red as anger and disappointment got the
better of him.
With all a woman's tact she said soothingly :
" Do it because I ask you to, Will ; it is for the best. We
can wait; let the future take care of itself."
She knew that she was holding out a hope that might
never be realized, but it was the only way to carry her point
— to get him to avoid the notoriety and consequences of the
open breach; that must be avoided at any cost.
It required both tact and persuasion to bring Will Ganton
to her way of thinking. His impulse was to fight it out.
He did not care what people said, and he would show his
father he could get on. That was the way he felt, but in the
end he promised to do as she asked, and he left the house with
the firm intention of effecting a reconciliation with his father
the next day. But the opportunity never came.
[383]
CHAPTER XXIII
THE SENTENCE OF DEATH
MONDAY morning John Ganton was so much worse
that without saying anything to him his wife tele
phoned for the doctor.
He had not felt well all day Sunday. He was restless,
complained of swelling in his feet and legs, and of the pain
in his stomach.
" Don't bother me. I '11 be better in the morning," he
answered impatiently when his anxious wife timidly sug
gested calling the doctor. But toward night the pain be
came so acute that he could not sleep. It hurt him even to
move his body, and he could not stand the pressure of the
hot-water bag against his side. It seemed to him as if
something had burst inside, and he carefully passed his hand
over the hard lump and over his abdomen, which he could see
was swollen, and the skin was tense like the head of a drum.
He realized that he was a very sick man, that there must be
something very serious the matter. But if the doctors came
they would look him over and find the lump, and insist on
cutting him open, — the thought frightened him more than
the pain.
As he lay there flat on his back trying to sleep, it seemed
to him that he was more wide awake with his eyes closed
than writh them open. With them open he saw only the
dimly lighted room, the familiar objects, and the shadows on
the wall; but with his eyes closed he saw everything,
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The Sentence of Death
everybody, the Yards, the great steam-filled rooms, the
bubbling vats, the men barefooted and sweaty moving
about amidst the slime and offal, the sheep and the hogs and
the cattle in the long narrow runways moving in an endless
stream on to the killing-rooms. There were moments when
it seemed as if a million great, round, meek eyes were fixed
on him in reproach; he aroused himself with a start, and the
four walls of his bedroom, with the shadows from the dim
light, were a positive relief.
With feverish restlessness his mind wandered from one
detail of his great business to another, worrying to think
what would become of it if he did not get well. Every time
he thought of Will a feeling of depression rather than of
anger came over him, and he began to doubt whether he had
treated the boy quite fairly; but then he saw the red and
bloated features of Jem Keating, the worthless sot, the man
who years before had — his heart filled with rage. Yet his
mind did not dwell long on any particular matter; several
times he tried to concentrate his thoughts, to forget, if possi
ble, his sufferings, but his fancy wandered, queer shapes and
imaginings assailed him. The shadows on the walls danced
about as if suddenly imbued with life, coming toward him,
bending over the bed, trying to snatch the clothes off him to
get at the place on his side.
On a sudden he could see that they had knives in their
hands. They would kill him, and with a cry of terror he
tried to push the shadows away. For a second they van
ished from the bedside and went back to their places on the
walls. He thought he saw his wife moving about the room,
- he had been dozing and dreaming, that was all.
But soon the shadows began to dance about again as they
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Ganton &: Co.
came down from the wall, and this time he was sure they
gathered about his bed and looked at him. He could see
them more plainly, for it was daylight; he could even hear
their voices. They were trying to talk to him, but he would
not answer, — he knew better than that; he would keep quiet
and pretend he was asleep, and they would go away, would
go back to the walls and stay there. He would just hold to
the bedclothes so they could not get at him. But he could
feel them tugging, and as they grabbed him by the hands
and held him tight, he tried to cry out, to scream for help,
to roll over, to get away; but they held him, threw back the
bedclothes, and he could feel them touch the spot on his side
and tap on his stomach. He knew they were looking for a
place to thrust their knives, and the sweat stood out upon his
forehead as he groaned and fought, until in an agony of des
peration he opened his eyes wide and saw his wife and three
men about the bed. He recognized one as the doctor he had
seen before, and as his mind cleared a little he knew the others
were doctors. He must have been dreaming.
But who had called them ? A frown came over his face,
and he was on the point of ordering every one out of the
room, when the one he knew spoke to him gently:
"You feel better now, Mr. Ganton? "
He did not feel any better, but he would not admit it.
He would not tell those men, so he turned on his side and
faced the wall without answering.
For a long time there was a hum of subdued voices. They
were talking together, but he could not hear what they said,
and had no desire to. So long as they did not bother him
and did not try to meddle he did not care. . . . But why
did they not go ?
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The Sentence of Death
In a little while they did go, and his wife bent over him.
"John," she said softly, "are you awake? Do you
know me ? "
That irritated him, and he answered impatiently:
"Of course I know you; why do you ask such a fool
question ? "
He could hear something like a sigh of relief as she said :
"The doctors want you to take this medicine, John."
He turned angrily.
" What are those doctors doing here ? Who called them ?
Send them away. Tell them to go — " His voice died
away in a groan, the intense pain he was suffering over
came him.
" You have been so sick all night long, that you did n't
know me at all. We could n't do anything with you. Take
this; the doctors say it will ease the pain."
He took the medicine without further protest, and eyed
his wife suspiciously, as if desirous of asking something, and
yet being afraid to. At length he said:
" Did they look me over at all ? "
She hesitated a second and replied timidly:
" They had to, John. It could n't be helped, — they had
to find out what was the matter."
He turned his head toward the wall. The worst had
happened: he had not been dreaming; the shadows had
come down and held him and pulled the clothes off.
" Well, what do they say ? " he asked, as if indifferent to
their opinions. " Do they want to cut me open ? "
"Oh, no: not that," his wife exclaimed hurriedly. "I
heard one say an operation would do no good."
A feeling of relief came over him. The terror of weeks
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Ganton & Co.
lifted from his breast, and he no longer cared how many
doctors looked him over so long as there would be no cutting.
On the contrary, he felt a sudden curiosity to know what they
did think was the matter with him.
" Have they gone ? " he asked.
" No; they are down in the library holding a consultation."
"When they get their minds made up I want to see them.
. . . Who are they, anyway ? "
She named the two best-known surgeons in the city,
one a famous specialist in abdominal troubles.
" Yes ; I 've heard their names. They would rather cut
a man up than eat. I wonder why they did n't want to cut
into me."
When the doctors did come up he was wide awake and
in possession of all his faculties; the pain had subsided, and
he felt easier in every way. As they approached the bedside
he eyed them with something of the old look of suspicion in
the gray eyes, now deeply sunken beneath the overhanging
bushy brows.
One of the surgeons, the famous specialist, cleared his
throat as if about to speak, but got no farther than a guttural
"Ahem!"
John Ganton became impatient; as the pain subsided
his irritability increased.
" Well, what is the matter with me ? That is what I 'd
like to know. Speak out, and don't try to hide things."
Again the eminent specialist cleared his throat, and tried
to veneer the bitter truth with a series of high-sounding
phrases.
John Ganton listened wearily; it was mostly Greek to
him. He had not the faintest idea what the great specialist
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The Sentence of Death
was talking about, except when peritonitis was mentioned ; he
knew what peritonitis was, a kind of an inflammation about
the stomach, and if that was all then he would come around
all right in a short time; but the lump in his side, why did
they say nothing about that ? At length he broke in abruptly :
"What's that lump in my side, doctor?"
The surgeon seemed confused ; he looked at his colleagues,
and it was so long before he replied John Ganton knew they
were trying to conceal something.
" I want to know the truth, doctor, and no beating about
the bush."
His voice was so firm and his manner so peremptory, that
the three physicians understood they must let him know his
real condition. Dropping his professional manner, the great
surgeon tried to break the truth as kindly and gently as
possible. His heart was not so callous he could pronounce
the death sentence unmoved.
" I wish, Mr. Ganton, we could give you more encourage
ment, but the truth is, your condition is very serious. The
trouble is with the liver; we fear you are suffering from a
cancer —
The doctor paused and looked at his silent colleagues.
To John Ganton the term "cancer" carried a terrible signifi
cance. He knew it meant death sooner or later; he knew in
most cases it meant an operation, and all his fears suddenly
revived. Nerving himself, he asked hoarsely:
"Do you propose to cut me open, doctor?"
The surgeon shook his head doubtfully. " If it is a cancer
it would do no good, Mr. Ganton."
" But suppose it is n't a cancer ? " the old man was grasp
ing at every straw.
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Ganton & Co.
" The diagnosis is plain. We feel there can be very little
doubt — "
"You are not sure; you don't know for certain," he mut
tered hoarsely.
"No; we do not know for certain, and we could only find
out positively by opening it up so we could see."
For a long time John Ganton was silent, so long that the
doctors thought the opiate was taking effect and he was going
to sleep. But he was not; his mind was never more active
than at that moment. He was thinking, thinking that after
all it might be better to let them cut into him a little and
make sure. He could not stand the awful suspense of the
days and weeks to follow. He would rather die under the
surgeon's knife than die by inches from hour to hour. In
the presence of that malignant reality, a cancer, the idea
of an operation suddenly lost all its terrors. He even felt
angry with the fool doctors for not insisting upon finding out
the truth at once. Why should they stand there guessing, as
if his life were some game to be played by the wits ? Why
did they not go ahead and make sure? If that lump was
a cancer he was a dead man anyway; if it was not, then
they might take it out or do something; he must get rid of
that lump or he would die. . . .
He opened his eyes. The doctors were whispering
together in the centre of the room. What were they talking
about now ? Wrhy did n't they speak up so he could hear ?
"Doctor," he called out sharply.
The great specialist came to the side of the bed.
"Look here, doctor, I want you to find out for certain
whether that is cancer or not. Will you have to cut very
deep ? "
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The Sentence of Death
"No, Mr. Ganton, the operation would be very slight;
there would be no danger connected with the mere explora
tion, but if it is cancer your condition is desperate, for the
disease is well advanced." The great surgeon now spoke
plainly and earnestly as man to man, with no subterfuge,
no evasion in his manner. John Ganton liked him better
and had confidence in him.
"Well, doctor," he said after a pause, "I don't propose
to lie here and suffer hell without knowing whether I am
dying or not. I want to find out, and find out quick, so go
ahead."
With that he turned his face to the wall and closed his
eyes. One of the doctors bent over and looked at him, and
said softly, "He is going to sleep." He heard them tiptoe
softly out of the room, and he was alone. He did not feel
drowsy, and the pain was mostly gone, leaving only a dull
sensation about his stomach. The hypodermic they had
given him made him more comfortable, but he was not
sleepy. He opened his eyes and gazed at the quaint pattern
of the old-fashioned wall-paper, noticing that in one place
the careless hanger had not matched the two strips of paper
perfectly, and every flower up and down the line was slightly
askew. It annoyed him so that he wondered why he had
never noticed it before in all the years he had slept in that
bed. It irritated him so he shut his eyes, but when he opened
them later the flowers were still queer; he would have that
fixed if they had to repaper the entire room ; he would attend
to that as soon as he got out, — but suppose he never got out,
never left his bed ; did not the doctor say it might come any
moment ? Even now it might be lurking in the hallway just
outside his door, or hovering like a shadow beside his bed;
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he pulled the clothes tight about his neck and once more
shut his eyes ; this time he slept, but his sleep was troubled
by strange dreams, — were they dreams or memories ? He
dreamed he was a child ; he saw a dusty, sandy road stretch
ing between fields of grain and green pastures; he was
walking with his grandmother. Soon they came to a little old
country burying-ground where the mounds were overgrown
with weeds and thickets of brush, where the few headstones
had toppled over and the boards with painted inscriptions
had rotted and decayed; the burying-ground was no longer
used ; they turned in and came to a hole in the ground where
two men were standing with shovels and ropes. He went
to the side of the hole and peered in; there at the bottom,
where the water trickled in, he saw a worm-eaten coffin, the
lid was off and the coffin was half -filled with water, but he
saw a face, a ghastly white and drawn face, a face which had
great hollows for eyes, and it grinned and showed its teeth; he
saw a mass of black hair coiled about the head, and the water
kept trickling in. He staggered back and sat down on the
pile of loose, damp earth, the men looked at him and laughed
coarsely. His grandmother was crying, she remembered
when that body at the bottom of the wet grave was filled
with life, when it played about the house and trotted
in her footsteps, when it knelt at her knees to pray and
nestled by her side to sleep; she remembered when the end
came, when the young bright eyes were closed in death,
when the fair hands were clasped upon the breast, when the
coffin was closed, and with a wreath of flowers was lowered
into this grave to moulder and dissolve into earth again,
— that was long years before, years before he was born ;
but his grandmother remembered it all as if but the day
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The Sentence of Death
before. Now the grave was opened to move the body to
a newer cemetery, she lived her sorrow over again, and she
cried as she stood there tall and thin. That was death,
that ghastly whiteness, those hollow sockets, the grinning
mouth, — that was death. Covered with perspiration he
awoke. His wife was sitting by the bed, some woman
with a cap and in a queer dress was fussing with a
bottle over by the bureau, — where did she come from ?
He could not have dozed more than three or four minutes.
" Are you awake, John ? " his wife asked softly.
" Yes, what time is it ? "
"Nearly four o'clock. The nurse wants to give you
some medicine."
He looked at his wife puzzled and helpless, — nearly four
o'clock ! He had slept almost all day; and they had brought
in a trained nurse, a strange woman, without saying a word
to him. He did not like it, and he should let her go just as
soon as he got a little better; but not just now, for the pain
had come back in his side and stomach, and she could give
him something.
He took his medicine without protest, and lay there
watching the nurse arrange the bottles and make an entry
on a big sheet of paper spread on the bureau ; he was curious
to know what she put down, but did not ask.
That afternoon Browning cabled John to come home.
"There is not one chance in a thousand," the surgeon
said to Browning. "We shall make an incision to be abso
lutely certain, but there is no doubt."
" How long will he live ? " Browning asked anxiously.
" A week or a month, — no one can tell. The end often
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comes pretty quickly in these cases; not only the liver, but
surrounding tissue, is badly involved, and he may die of
haemorrhage any minute."
" Then why operate ? "
"He insists upon it, — to make sure of the diagnosis."
" That is strange, for he has always been mortally afraid
of the knife. I never knew a man so afraid of an operation."
"Well, I don't blame him for wanting to know for sure
what ails him. I should if I were in his place."
" But if it is n't cancer can you do anything to help him ? "
"Probably not; whatever the growth is it is too firmly
attached to the liver to be removed."
" Then the operation won't amount to anything in the end ? "
" No, only we shall find whether there is a cancer or not."
Browning could not see much sense in cutting a man open
to satisfy curiosity, even if the patient did insist.
" Doctors are altogether too willing to use the knife
nowadays," he remarked to his wife that evening. He was
anxious and worried and all at sea in the office without the
commanding influence of John Ganton. Browning had
never decided an important matter without referring it to
his employer, and the foreign managers were expected to
refer everything except routine business to the home office.
John Ganton was more than the life, he was the very soul,
of his great company ; and unless some one of like force and
decision could take his place the entire business must be
reorganized on a very different basis.
"What will you do if he dies?" Mrs. Browning asked
apprehensively.
" I don't know, — I 'm sure I don't know. Will could
never run the business even if -
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The Sentence of Death
" How about John ? "
"I don't know. I am afraid he won't take hold; he
does n't like the Yards."
" But he may have to, whether he likes to or not," Mrs.
Browning remarked emphatically.
" It 's hard driving an unwilling horse. I cabled John
to-day, — the doctors said he ought to be here."
The news that John Ganton was very sick, that there had
been a consultation of surgeons, that he could not live, that
there would be an operation, and much more to the same
effect spread over the city and through the Yards with
lightning-like rapidity.
Within a few hours the rumors became greatly exagger
ated and distorted. It was reported that there had been an
operation and he had died under the knife, that it had turned
out nothing was the matter, but the surgeons had killed him,
— this the men at the Yards firmly believed until convinced
to the contrary; though even when told that he was alive
and probably in no immediate danger, they insisted the
surgeons would kill him in the end.
Doc Ruggles did much to confirm this belief. He had
no use for surgeons, veterinary or otherwise, of the modern
school; he did not believe in the use of the knife; in his
opinion a red-hot iron was worth a dozen knives, and a
blister never killed any one.
"I 'd fix that lump in his side," he said, nodding his head
emphatically, " I 'd burn that out of him in a jiffy," and not
a man about Ganton & Co.'s stables doubted old Doc's
ability to do what he said he could; not one of them was
afraid of a red-hot iron, but a knife — that was very dif
ferent. In their business knives were used to kill.
[395]
CHAPTER XXIV
JOHN GANTON'S VISION
ALL the morning long, John Ganton watched the
preparations for the operation. He refused to be
moved to a hospital; he did not care to die cooped
up in one of those terrible buildings.
The big front guest-room, which had not been used since,
since — he could not recall when it had been occupied —
was thrown open, cleaned, dusted, and aired, although it
really did not need cleaning or dusting, for it was kept in per
fect order. He insisted on having the door of his room left
open, so he could see what was going on.
First one of the surgeons came with a younger man who
had a silky, blonde beard, wore glasses, and smelt like a
drug-shop; this young man bustled about with an air of
such importance it irritated the old man. "I wonder who
that young idiot is," he said to himself. The young fellow
ordered the carpet up and the floor scrubbed with some queer
liquid. The curtains had to be taken down, leaving only
the shades. The stuffy upholstered furniture was moved
out. The huge mahogany bed was carried into the third
story, and a narrow white-enamelled iron bed, hardly more
than a cot, put in its place.
" I wonder if the young idiot thinks I am going to sleep
in that, " the old man muttered as he watched these changes
with a hostile eye.
When he learned the young man was one of the assistants
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John Ganton's Vision
to the celebrated specialist, the little confidence he had in
surgeons evaporated completely; if they could tolerate such
half -ripe whipper-snappers about them, then their profession
was as big a sham as he had always thought it was. It
annoyed him to hear his nurse call the young idiot, with a
beard like a floss of green corn, " Doctor," as if he knew
enough to be anything more than an office-boy; the three
physicians, taken together, did not put on so many airs as
this young fellow.
A little later he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, and
two men came up carrying a long narrow thing with cloth
on it, that looked at first like a box. The perspiration
started out on his forehead and a cold chill went through
him, — could it be a box, — a — a — For a moment he
thought they were making preparations for the worst, until
he saw that it was only a long, narrow table. " That must be
the operating-table," he thought; "they will lay me on that,
and then they will stick the knife in me." He shuddered,
for whenever he thought of the knife all he could see was the
pig-sticking room at the Yards, the small vat-like place
where the sticker stood up to his ankles in blood and thrust
his long, sharp knife in the throats of the squealing hogs as
they slid rapidly down the iron runway, dangling from the
track above by their hind legs. John Ganton knew how
it was done, for he had stuck pigs himself, — just a quick
jab with the long knife, right in the throat, a gush of red,
warm blood, and the pig would go sliding on, squealing
louder than ever, while a dozen more came dangling after it,
each kicking and spouting blood as if its last mission in life
was to get rid of all the blood it contained. He could see
himself stretched upon that narrow table, he could see the
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knife, the cut, the blood, — he felt sick at his stomach, and
partially turned away in the effort to shut out the vision.
By-and-bye another nurse came in the same cap and
uniform, and with her a lot of bottles and queerly shaped
dishes. She busied herself in the front room. Every time
he caught a glimpse of her through the open doors and hall
way she was cleaning and wiping the dishes, arranging the
bottles, or squeezing out big sponges. She wanted to close
the door, but he would not have it; he did not propose to be
kept shut up like an old woman. He wanted to know what
was going on, — it was his operation. He took a certain
amount of satisfaction in feeling that all this was being
arranged for him; that he was the principal personage in the
drama to be enacted, and not the young idiot of a doctor, not
the nurses, not even the great surgeon himself. He remem
bered that as a small boy going to the dentist to have a tooth
out he was the centre of a group of admiring rather than
sympathizing companions. They stood at the foot of the
stairs while he went up, all his courage vanishing the
moment he left them. Funny he should recall that expe
rience of nearly sixty years ago at this time. Why, the
narrow wooden stairway leading to the dentist's office was
just as plain ! The stairs were so dirty they probably had not
been swept all summer. He had not noticed it at the time,
for his bare feet were used to dirt in those days; but he re
membered it now. The dentist was such a fussy little
man, with red whiskers and a bald head; his small office had
only one window, fronting on the main street of the vil
lage, and on this window was painted a big white tooth;
there was a glass jar filled with teeth which had been pulled
from young and old during the years he had practised
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John Ganton's Vision
there, — more teeth from the old than the young, for all the
boys and most of the girls carried theirs away as trophies.
How plain it all appeared! That was his first operation,
and beyond the pulling of hollow and aching teeth he had
known no other.
During the days he had been in bed, during the hours he
had restlessly wandered about the house, so many events
and scenes of his early life had come back to him ! When the
pain was intense he could not concentrate his mind, he could
not keep it within the narrow confines of the present, but
as if released by bodily suffering, it ran riot over his entire
career. Often he grew very tired of these endless recollec
tions and tried to forget, tried to think of nothing at all, but
when he succeeded in blotting out the past his present condi
tion with all his disagreeable sensations rushed in upon him.
Would he never rest? Would he never again be free from
that terrible consciousness of self? .
Three o'clock was the hour fixed for the operation. A
little after one John Ganton had a long talk with his wife.
He had not talked so long with her since — since — he
could not remember when. For many years they had drifted
apart in the big, gloomy house; in all her attachments and
sympathies she had remained as she always had been, while
he had developed along lines she could neither follow nor
comprehend. They had lived under the same roof, but as
two beings from different walks of life. In the presence of
death they drew together once more ; he leaned on her, and
she felt pride in her burden.
During the hour they were by themselves her eyes were
filled with tears, and more than once his own were wet. In
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spite of the doctor's assurance that there was no danger in the
examination they were about to make, he feared he might
not come out from under the anaesthetic, that he would
never regain consciousness. All day long this notion
haunted him.
He asked for Will, but Will had not been home since the
Saturday before; he had not been seen at the clubs since
Sunday, and no one knew where he was. When they told
him Will could not be found, something of the old, angry look
came into his face, but it passed away quickly, and he said
nothing.
When they came in to prepare him he was lying quietly
on his back, with his wife's thin white hand clasped in his.
His interest was at once aroused in all they did.
When the two nurses and the young assistant began to
clean his side and abdomen with water and alcohol and some
other liquid, and swathe him with linen bandages, he angrily
told the young fellow to leave him alone, to let the nurses
attend to him; then when he saw how surprised and cha
grined the young man was, he was sorry he had spoken so
harshly. The nurses bathed him so gently, he scarcely felt
the pressure of their trained fingers; they handled him like
a great baby. But he would not let the doctors carry him
into the front room.
" I 'm not so far gone as all that, doctor," he protested
when they were about to pick him up. '' I can manage to get
there, if," he added, struggling to rise, "you will give me
a lift."
He was bent and thin, and so feeble that as his wife saw
him totter through the hall, she buried her face in both her
hands and wept as if her heart would break, — she had never
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John Canton's Vision
expected to see her big, burly husband like that. They had
told her to remain where she was until it was all over; the
doctors had assured her many times there was no danger,
for they did not intend to go very deep, — only far enough to
find out what was the matter. It would be only a few min
utes, half an hour at the most; but how long, how endlessly
long it seemed since the door of that front room was closed,
and then, when it did open —
Assisted by two of the doctors John Ganton walked feebly
through the hall to the front room; he stopped just a
moment at the door of his own room and looked back. Ever
since the house was built he had slept in that room, and not
a piece of furniture had been changed. He never cared for
new things ; the fact that the heavy black-walnut furniture, the
best they could buy at the time, had long passed out of vogue
did not bother him. Having adjusted himself to its ponder
ous pretentiousness, he found it comfortable. Now he saw
the bed with the counterpane and blanket thrown back in
disorder, he saw the stand at the head of the bed with its
bottles and a glass half filled with water and the spoon from
which he had taken his medicine a few moments before; he
saw the bureau and the paper on which the nurse kept his
record, her pencil lying where she dropped it after making the
last entry. . . . What would be her next ? he asked him
self. His eye took in every detail in the few seconds he
stood there steadying himself with one hand against the door
jamb; last of all, his glance dwelt affectionately, even wist
fully, on his wife, who had meekly taken her seat by the win
dow to wait, obeying quite literally the doctor's injunction to
sit down and be patient.
He might never enter the room again, — that was the
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thought which haunted him, and this last look seemed to him
like a farewell.
All the doctors wore white gowns tied across their backs,
even the young assistant was in white, as if he, too, played
a part; he stood at the head of the long, narrow operating-
table, and on the small stand beside him there were large,
queerly shaped sponges, and a black bottle that held a pint
or more. It annoyed John Ganton to see this young fellow
with his silky blonde beard standing there with an air of
such importance, — why did they have him around ?
Pushed to one side there was a small square table with
some things on it. They were covered with a towel, so he
could not see what they were, but he knew that under the
towel were the instruments; they had put them out of sight,
so as not to frighten him, though, strangely enough, he was
no longer afraid. The operation did not worry him; he was
only anxious to get through with it, and find out whether or
not the lump in his side was really a cancer. He even wished
he could watch them open it so as to see for himself.
The doctors helped him on the narrow table covered with
a white sheet ; somehow the sheet looked to him as if it were
already spotted and splashed with blood.
They were very gentle with him, talking to him as if he
needed encouragement and reassurance:
" It will amount to nothing, Mr. Ganton."
" It will be over before you know it."
"You won't feel anything at all."
" If you will lie perfectly still and take the ether as if you
were going to sleep, you will be under the influence in no
time."
They kept saying these things while they were arranging
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John Ganton's Vision
him on the narrow table, but he made no reply. He did not
care what they said, he was interested only in what they were
doing.
They put broad straps about his legs, and he did not like
it, he could not move. The doctors took hold of his hands
gently but firmly, one on each side of the narrow table. He
saw the surgeon, the specialist, nod almost imperceptibly to
the young assistant with the silky blonde beard, and he heard
something poured out of a bottle. There was a sweet, sick
ening odor; he knew the young assistant was filling the
sponge with ether, and he wondered how they gave ether to
make a man go to sleep, whether they held it under his nose,
or —
Suddenly the big soggy sponge was pressed down over
his mouth and nose, even to his eyes. He could not look up,
he could not breathe, he smothered, suffocated, strangled, —
he struggled to free himself. But they held his hands and
arms, and some one took him by the head so he could not
turn or twist, — he would die, they were smothering him, he
tried to call out; but the big wet sponge deadened the cry
into a groan. He held his breath, he would not inhale the
sickening stuff; it went all through him, it made him sick
at his stomach, he knew he should vomit, he could not help
it, he felt the retching, — again he struggled to free himself,
but this time more feebly. His strength was gone, he felt
so tired. What was the use ? He would just rest. He no
longer minded the sweet smell of the ether, — it was rather
pleasant. In fact, he could not smell it at all; the sponge
felt so cool upon his face he hoped they would not take it
away. He was not yet under the influence, he was sure of
that. He could hear voices, though they sounded far away.
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No, he was not yet unconscious, they must not begin yet,
they must wait, — a feeling of terror swept over him at the
thought that they might cut into him before he was under
the ether. He would cry out to let them know he was still
awake; but he could not make a sound, — he was conscious,
yet he could not speak, could not even groan. One hand
was free, but he could not lift it, the other some one held and
felt his pulse. Just as he felt so tired and sleepy he was
about ready to doze off, the sponge was lifted a little and
some one poked away at one of his eyes. What were they
trying to do now ? Some one pulled up one of his eyelids.
It was the young assistant with the silky blonde beard. Why
did n't he leave him alone ? W7hy should he disturb him
just as he was dropping off to sleep ?
They stopped poking his eyes, and he felt the wet sponge
again; but this time it was held lightly over his face and
removed frequently, as if they wished to give him a chance
to breathe. He did not care, he would just as soon breathe
the ether now that he was used to it; in fact, he rather liked it.
But he was not yet unconscious, — he could hear voices,
but very distant, and he caught a clicking sound, as if they
were rattling a lot of knives and forks in a basket. They
were fussing with the instruments, but he was not uncon
scious, and they must wait a while yet. He would take deep
breaths of the sweet ether and go to sleep as quickly as he
could so they would get through. He was afraid they would
begin too soon, but every time he took the deep breaths the
sponge would be lifted a little, and they would poke away at
his eyes and wake him up; he began to feel angry at the
idiotic assistant who would not let him go to sleep.
Just then he felt they were doing something to his side, —
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John Gan ton's Vision
feeling of it, — putting something wet on it. He heard the
rattling of the instruments. They were getting ready; he
knew it, and he was not asleep. He could hear them, he
could feel what they were doing, and they would cut into him
while he was awake and kill him. His old terrors over
whelmed him, he tried to move, to struggle, to cry out, but
there was only a hoarse guttural sound which did not seem
to come from him, but from far away, and the sponge came
down over his mouth and nose, this time a little closer and
firmer
He knew they were feeling of his side, poking and work
ing at him, — all of a sudden there was a sensation down there
as if they had drawn the sharp point of a needle across his
skin, or — no, it was more like the edge of a piece of ice, it
was cold. What could they be doing now ?
After this first sensation he could feel nothing more, only
that they seemed to be fussing about his side, pulling it and
poking it so it ached a little, then working it with — why did
they not put him to sleep and go ahead with the operation ?
He was getting tired, so weary, he would just go to sleep
anyway, ether or no ether, they could do as they pleased, he
no longer cared. For some time the young assistant had not
poked his eyes; for some time the big sponge had rested on
his nose and mouth, it felt so cool and good, they were so
interested in his side they must have forgotten all about him,
and now he would go to sleep ; he would have a good rest in
spite of them.
And he went to sleep, and he dreamed of the days when
he lived on the farm, of those bright, happy days when, a
little barefooted boy in patched and faded overalls which
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came to his armpits, he drove the cows to pasture and loitered
by the brook in the far meadow, or dangled his brown and
dirty legs from the rude bridge of tamarack logs ; he dreamed
of the crane which stood like a sentinel by the water's edge,
of the brilliant dragon-flies he often tried to catch, of the big
shiners which darted hither and thither through the rippling
waters; he could hear the hoarse croaking of the frogs at
night, the shrill sound of the grasshoppers in the fields, the
song of the distant whip-poor-will, — whip-poor-will.
He dreamed of his rough but kindly father, who rose with
the sun and worked all day long until after dark to earn
enough to support his family, — the father who one day went
to bed in the bedroom downstairs, and after a few days
died; he could just remember how still the house was, how
dark they kept the room, the green shutters open just a little
for air, and how strange and white and rigid his father looked
in the long black box in the centre of the room. He
had never seen his father lie like that, in his Sunday coat
and waistcoat, with a big collar and white tie ; he stole in alone
and put the tips of his fingers on the white, the awfully white
forehead, but it was so cold and damp he shrank back terri
fied. Then came the funeral, the neighbors with their bug
gies and teams hitched to the fence along the road, the old
white-haired minister from the village, the dusty ride to the
burying-ground, a mound of earth, a few faded flowers,
— and that was all.
He dreamed of his two sisters who had died years and
years ago; and he dreamed of his mother, of a thin figure
in black who hugged him close to her and cried over him,
who seemed to suffer so much. He remembered how she
got thinner and thinner, until the village doctor told her she
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John Ganton's Vision
must go to the hospital in the neighboring city and have
something done, — he never knew what. But they took him
to see her in the hospital one day, where she lay so still on
the narrow iron bed; somehow it seemed to him like the
village jail. She held his little brown hand in both of hers
and kissed him again and again, and cried when they took
him away. He never saw her again, not even in her coffin,
for they did not open it when they brought her back to the
village to be buried beside his father, — the same neighbors
with their horses hitched to the fence, the same white-haired
minister from the village, the same burying-ground, an open
grave, a few flowers, — and that was all. . . .
But he dreamed stranger dreams than these : he dreamed
the flowers that seemed withered and dead sprang to life
and lifted up their heads in fragrance, that the graves opened
and those he loved came forth in dim, mysterious shapes, that
they hovered about him, stretched out their hands toward
him, beckoned him to join them; and in the far distance he
saw a city, the houses of which were of gold and the palaces
of clear crystal, — it was the city his mother described so
often in those days when she taught him to pray, — that
beautiful city of light; there it was in all its fair reality just
as she had said; so he mounted the broad, white stairway,
each step a filmy cloud, and he came to the gates of pearl,
and he dreamed that before they closed behind him he looked
back on the earth beneath, but it was hidden and lost in
darkness, shrouded in smoke and bathed in steam and noi
some vapors, — a place of slaughter and offal.
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CHAPTER XXV
THE END AND THE BEGINNING
THREE days before young John Ganton arrived in
Chicago his father was buried in Graceland. In accord
ance with a wish expressed long before, they hollowed
out a great trench and made a pit of concrete, the bottom
and sides of which were more than two feet thick. Into this
pit they lowered the leaden coffin and sealed the top with a
slab of granite which only derricks could move. There
John Ganton, founder, creator, and head of Ganton & Co.,
was laid to rest, to moulder and with the years decay; but
protected from contact with the all-dissolving earth. Gen
erations hence his body will remain intact.
The day after John arrived they opened the will; it was
a short, business-like document, executed recently. After
distributing a number of bequests to institutions which he
favored and to certain of the men who had worked for him
many years, and after making ample provision for his wife,
he left one million dollars in trust for Will, the income and
principal to be paid over upon his marriage, with the pro
viso, however, if he married a daughter of James Q. Keat
ing, "commonly known as 'Jem Keating'" — so the will
put it — "the bequest should be null and void, and the fund
so held in trust should be distributed pro rata among the
several institutions hereinbefore named in clause three."
The entire rest and residue of the estate, in whatsoever it
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The End and the Beginning
might consist, was left to John Ganton, Jr., with the special
request that he "devote his life and energies to the service
of Ganton & Co."
They were assembled in the library, Mrs. Ganton, Will,
and John, their father's attorney, and Browning, who had
been invited to be present.
When the clause concerning him was read, Will Ganton's
face flushed, and he hung his head as if to suppress an ex
clamation of anger. He did not care about the money; in
all Chicago there was not a fellow who cared so little about
money; but it cut him to the quick to hear May Keating
referred to in such brutal terms, — referred to as plainly as if
her name had been mentioned. A bitter feeling against his
father filled his heart. Up to that moment he had mourned
more than John, for his father had been nearer to him than
to his brother. In his clumsy way he had tried to cheer his
mother and sustain her under the awful shock of sudden
death; like a great dog, he had hung about the house, sitting
by her side, and comforting her in mute sympathy. He had
missed his father almost as much as she had, but now as he
listened to the monotonous accents of the lawyer reading the
clause which cut him off entirely if he married a daughter of
" Jem Keating," his sorrow gave way to a feeling of bitter
resentment. He was glad John was to have charge of the
business, — that provision relieved him of a lot of responsi
bility and worry. He glanced at John to see how he took
it, but the latter's firm, smooth face betrayed not the slightest
emotion. He sat there looking at the attorney, and listening
as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
While the clause regarding Will was being read, John
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Ganton looked from the attorney to his brother in amaze
ment. Beyond a few hints contained in his mother's letters,
he knew nothing of what had been going on in Chicago,
nothing of Will's quarrel with their father. When away he
seldom read the Chicago papers, and never the society
columns, and he had no friends to keep him informed.
Hence his surprise as he heard how Will was cut off unless
he married, and cut off absolutely if he married May Keating.
The harsh injustice of his father's resentment struck him
forcibly, and he thought to himself, " I will make good that
wrong."
That he should be named as the future head of Ganton
& Co. did not surprise him at all, and this lack of surprise
came to him afterward as strange.
He knew he was powerless to evade the responsibility.
The "request" from the grave was merely the expression
of an overwhelming necessity.
When the reading of the will came to an end there was
silence for several minutes. The thin, keen-faced lawyer
looked from one to the other of the brothers curiously. It was
all quite beyond the comprehension of the mother, who sat
there in the deepest mourning, huddled in one of the big arm
chairs. All she understood was the reference to the Keating
girls and their father, and she felt sorry for Will when she
heard that. But all those long words about trusts and
trustees, and devises and bequests, with one provision after
another, she could make nothing of, so she said nothing. It
would all come right in the end, — of that she was certain.
She kept thinking how lonely the big house seemed, and
wondering what she should do now her husband was gone.
Will was sitting be^t forward with his elbows on his
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The End and the Beginning
knees, his chin resting in both his hands; he had raised his
eyes from the carpet only since the reading of the clause
which so affected him.
The silence had become oppressive, when suddenly
John Ganton roused himself as if from a fit of abstraction
and asked:
"Is that all?"
The lawyer bowed his head, "There is nothing more,
Mr. Ganton."
"Do I understand that with the exception of certain
bequests, the provision for my mother, and the trust fund of
a million dollars for the benefit of my brother, my father has
left his entire estate to me to do with as I please ? "
" That is correct ; you are the principal and at the same
time the residuary legatee. There are no restrictions."
" Then, Will," he exclaimed in clear, measured tones, as
he rose and went where his brother was sitting, "we can
right the wrong which has been done you. If father had
lived he would have relented, and happily for us both there
is nothing to prevent my doing what is ri^ht between you
and me."
Will Ganton got up impulsively, grabbed his brother's
outstretched hand in both his own, and shook it vigorously
as he tried to speak; the conflicting emotions were too much
for him for several seconds, but at length, half choking, he
said:
"It's all right, John; you mean all right. You 're just
the same good-hearted, generous fellow you were as a little
shaver. I knew you would say it. I was just waiting for
you to speak up, just to see if you had changed any. You
are all right," he repeated affectionately, " you — you 're
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all right; " and that was all he could say, but he threw his
arms about his brother's neck and hugged him as if he were
a child.
When John Ganton, Jr., entered the office of Ganton &
Co. , in La Salle Street, every employee in the great outer room
looked up and recognized him, though hardly more than a
dozen had ever seen him before.
He looked like his father, though he was not so tall,
not so burly, his face was thinner, his eyes were softer,
rounder, and bluer, but there was no mistaking the resem
blance; even the office-boy at the door noticed it; the jaws
were square and firm. As the keen salesman in New York
had remarked, there was a "bulldoggy" expression which
reminded them of the father. "A chip of the old block,"
" Looks like him," " Better temper, I should say," " Not so
quick to fly off the handle," "Rather like his looks," " He '11
do," were some of the comments which spread from desk
to desk as he passed through to Browning's desk and with
him into the private office.
"You will find everything just as your father left it, Mr.
Ganton." It seemed funny to call him "Mr. Ganton."
Browning had always called both the boys by their first
names since they were little fellows. "Nothing has been
disturbed," he continued. " You have the key to the desk,
I believe."
John did not reply, but looked about him with a strange
feeling. So that was where his father had lived and worked
so many years, at that desk, seated in that big revolving
chair. For the second it seemed as if he were in the room,
as if an unseen presence hovered near them, as if his spirit
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The End and the Beginning
lingered wistfully, loath to relinquish control of the great
business.
The young man was silent so long that Browning began
to feel a little uneasy. At last he said with some hesitation :
"There are a good many telegrams, shall I bring them
in?"
" Not just yet. I will send for you shortly."
As Browning went out he closed the door after him.
John Ganton went to the window and looked out upon
the street and at the sign of the competitor on the windows
opposite, just as his father had been in the habit of doing a
dozen times a day. One of the men in the office of the com
pany across the street, looking over, exclaimed in surprise :
By the great Jehosaphat ! Look there, if that is n't
old John Ganton come to life, only he has renewed his
youth."
"Must be young John," some one remarked; "they said
he might be down to-day."
" Well, if he is n't the old man over again, I miss my
guess," the first speaker responded emphatically.
John turned from the window, took a small flat key
from his pocket, unlocked the desk, and pushed back the
big roll top.
Everything was just as his father had left it the last time
he was down, the day he had signed and acknowledged his
will. The pen with its big hard-rubber holder lay across
the sheet of blue blotting-paper where he had dropped it;
there was a big blot at the point where the ink had run off
and been absorbed. The small desk clock enclosed in a
sphere of glass had run down days before, and the hands
stood at thirteen minutes of six. John found himself won-
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dering whether the clock had stopped in the morning or the
afternoon. He would wind it and set it by-and-bye.
There were a number of telegrams and letters pushed to
one side, as if his father had been too sick or too occupied
with other matters to attend to them; they were all of a
business nature, some important, others unimportant.
No doubt most of them had answered themselves, as many
telegrams and most letters will if lost or overlooked; he
would turn them all over to Browning.
At the left hand he noticed a file of papers carefully
gathered together and held by a steel spring clasp. To
his surprise he found they were his cablegrams, letters, and
reports, from the first wireless message about the Austrian
meat inspection order to the last memorandum he had sent
regarding business at the Liverpool office, — all arranged in
chronological order. What were they doing on his father's
desk ? He could not imagine. There they were just as if
his father had been looking them over the last time he was
down. That such was the fact he afterward learned from
Browning, for his father had sent for the file about an hour
before he signed his will.
John Ganton looked over his own reports and corre
spondence with the interest of a man who is reminded of
a series of transactions long forgotten; he had his father's
faculty of deciding instantly, acting quickly, and dismissing
a matter from his mind completely; he did not burden his
memory with the debris of past transactions.
When he read that first wireless message, sent months
before, he recalled the beautiful summer day, the great ship,
its deckload of smiling and chatting passengers, the smok
ing-room, the pompous ambassador. He could hear the
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The End and the Beginning
hoarse buzz of the wireless instruments as the operator com
municated with the distant shore; he could see Mrs. Town-
send lounging indolently in her chair, — all, it all came back
to him like a vision from another world, another life, for what
had that world and that life in common wHh the world and
life before him ?
It seemed so long ago.
With something like a sigh he straightened up, threw
his shoulders back as if bracing himself for a burden, and
sent for Browning to bring the letters and telegrams.
THE END
[415]
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